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BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THIS  VOLUME. 

The  Quick  or  the  Dead  ? 

The  Witness  of  the  Sun. 

i2mo.     Cloth.     $1. oo  each. 

"The  wonderful  books  of  this  authoress 
have,  perhaps,  made  a  deeper  impression  on 
our  American  literature  than  any  work  of  fic 
tion  since '  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.'  "—New  York 
Herald.  .... 

Herod  and  Mariarnne. 

In  No.  249,  Lippincott' s  Magazine. 

Paper,  25  cents ;  half  cloth,  50  cents. 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COHPANY, 

PUBLISHERS, 

715  and  717  Market  Street,  Philadelphia. 


BARBARA  DERING, 


A  SEQUEL  TO 


THE  QUICK  OR  THE  DEAD? 


BY 

AMELIE  EIYES. 

-£-£-  &t4t-C0 


" Life  teaches  us 

To  be  less  strict  with  others  and  ourselves : 
Thou' It  learn  the  lesson,  too.    So  wonderful 
Is  human  nature,  and  its  varied  ties 
Are  so  involved  and  complicate,  that  none 
May  hope  to  keep  his  inmost  spirit  calm 
And  walk,  without  perplexity  through  life." 

•    «  ;''.    .GOETHE:  Iphigenia. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.  B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY. 

1893. 


COPYRIGHT,  1892, 

BY 
J.  B.  ttippiNcorr  COMPANY. 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA* 


"  SOCRATES.  .  .  .  Every  discourse,  once  written,  is  tossed 
about  from  hand  to  hand,  equally  among  those  who  under 
stand  it  and  those  for  whom  it  is  in  no  wise  fitted ;  and  it 
does  not  know  to  whom  it  ought,  and  to  whom  it  ought  not, 
to  speak.  And  when  misunderstood  and  unjustly  attacked, 
it  always  needs  its  parent  to  help  it ;  for,  unaided,  it  can 
neither  retaliate  nor  defend  itself." — PLATO  :  Phcedrus. 


1* 


3003 


BARBARA   DERING. 


MORE  than  two  years  had  passed  since  Bering 
left  Eosemary.  There  was  a  soft,  gold-gray  mist  over 
everything;  the  tulip-tree  leaves  glimmered  a  pale 
yellow  against  the  dark  evergreens  on  the  lawn;  the 
Indian-corn,  standing  in  great  tasselled  shocks,  gave 
forth  a  dry  rustle  now  and  then  as  a  field-creature 
scampered  through  it ;  a  crow  could  be  heard  some 
times  very  faintly,  as  though  drowsing  on  its  listless, 
slow-moving  wings ;  but,  except  for  such  noises,  the 
warm  autumn  day  was  silent  and  the  air  still. 

Barbara  was  walking  through  the  cornfield,  reading 
as  she  went.  Her  figure,  in  its  dimly-tinted  gown, 
looked  thinner.  She  was  pale,  and  her  mouth  had  a 
tired  bend  at  its  fine  corners. 

Under  her  broad  hat  her  hair  was  gathered  into  a 
sleekly-plaited  great  knot,  like  that  of  a  school-girl. 
She  looked  younger,  and  at  the  same  time  there  was 
an  expression  of  deeper  experience  in  her  large  eyes,  as 
she  lifted  them  gravely  from  her  book  to  the  murky 
blue  of  the  hills  or  the  rich  coloring  of  the  meadows 
through  which  she  was  passing. 

Presently  she  came  to  some  words  which  seemed  to 
her  like  a  personal  message : 

"  As  long  as  suffering  seems  grievous  to  thee  and  thou 
seekest  to  fly  from  it,  so  long  will  it  be  ill  with  thee,  and  the 

7 


8         ^  BARBARA   DERINQ. 

tribulation  from  which  thou  fliest  will  everywhere  follow 
thee. 

11  If  thou  set  thyself  to  do  what  thou  oughtest,  that  is,  to 
suffer  and  to  die  to  thyself,  it  will  quickly  be  better  with  thee, 
and  thou  wilt  find  peace." 

"  I  do  try,"  she  said  aloud,  as  though  speaking  to 
some  invisible  presence.  Her  lip  quivered  a  little,  like 
that  of  a  child  when  it  wishes  to  signify  that  it  means 
to  be  good,  and  she  looked  up  appealingly  into  the  calm 
sky  above  her,  which  seemed  like  a  symbol  of  the  peace 
for  which  she  yearned. 

Barbara  had  outgrown  much  of  her  old,  wayward 
impulsiveness  in  these  long,  lonely  months.  She  seemed 
to  herself  to  have  faded  mentally,  as  pastel  portraits 
fade  sometimes,  until  their  once  vivid  colors  are  only 
dull  half-tones.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  even  her 
power  of  suffering  keenly.  The  pain  that  haunted  her 
was  scarcely  more  than  that  sense  of  heaviness  with 
which  a  narcotic  veils  physical  anguish.  Usually,  when 
she  thought  of  Dering,  it  was  with  a  pitying  regret  for 
the  misery  which  she  had  caused  him, — sometimes  with 
a  swift,  fleeting  desire  to  have  him  with  her.  She  was 
very  lonely. 

"He  hates  me,  I  suppose,"  she  told  herself.  "He 
thinks  dreadful  things  of  me  ;  but  I  deserve  it.  It  is  only 
what  I  ought  to  bear.  I  ought  to  have  been  brave  and 
to  have  borne  what  I  brought  upon  myself.  After  all, 
life  is  so  very,  very  short.  I  am  nearly  twenty-nine  now. 
I  believe  women  change  a  great  deal  between  twenty- 
six  and  thirty.  I  could  have  made  him  happy  if  I 
could  only  have  conquered  my  miserable  self.  How 
morbid  I  was !  It  seemed  to  me  that  Yal  was  following 
me  and  laughing  at  me  with  some  one  else.  As  if  the 
great,  wise  dead  could  condescend  to  such  pettiness ! 


BARBARA   BERING.  9 

It  was  very  awful.  I  seem  to  have  passed  through  a 
furnace.  There  is  no  sap  of  life  left  in  me.  And  yet 
one  longs  so  for  love,  for  companionship."  Her  eyes 
filled  slowly  with  tears  which  did  not  fall.  She  began 
to  read  again,  and  again  the  words  seemed  like  a 
message  : 

"  What  I  have  given  I  can  justly  take  away,  and  restore 
it  again,  when  I  please. 

"  When  I  give  it,  it  is  still  mine ;  when  I  take  it  away 
again,  I  take  not  anything  that  is  thine;  for  every  best  gift 
and  every  perfect  gift  is  mine" 

"  How  strangely  God  speaks  to  me  out  of  books !" 
thought  Barbara,  with  her  old  conviction  in  Heaven 
sent  coincidences.  "  How  sweet  these  dear,  old-fashioned 
sentences  are !"  She  lifted  the  little  volume  and  pressed 
her  lips  upon  the  open  page  with  more  emotion  than 
she  had  felt  for  a  long  while. 

A  gun  fired  suddenly  in  the  next  field  made  her 
start.  Something  in  the  man's  dress  and  bearing,  as 
he  walked  after  the  rabbit  he  had  shot,  reminded  her 
of  Bering.  She  stood  still,  and  her  heart  began  to 
beat  quickly. 

"  How  strange  such  likenesses  are !"  she  said  to  her 
self.  "  But  I  must  ask  him  not  to  fire  so  near  the 
house.  It  will  frighten  away  the  birds  on  the  lawn." 

The  sportsman  proved  to  be  a  young  Canadian, 
whom  she  knew  slightly,  and  he  promised  not  to  fire 
again  until  he  had  reached  the  northwest  end  of  the 
meadow.  In  spite  of  this,  however,  Barbara  decided 
to  go  still  farther  away  into  the  woods.  The  sound  of 
a  gun  always  irritated  her ;  so  she  walked  rather  rap 
idly  until  she  reached  a  large  tree  just  within  the 
outer  fringe  of  the  forest.  As  she  looked  at  it  she  was 
swept  suddenly  back  into  the  past  as  though  on  a 


10  BARBARA  DERINQ. 

strong  wind  of  memory.  It  was  the  tree  in  which 
Dering  had  found  her  playing  with  the  greyhounds. 
She  put  her  ungloved  hand  against  the  rough  bark  and 
gazed  at  it  curiously.  How  such  a  thing  would  have 
made  her  suffer  two  years  ago !  Presently  she  sighed 
and  withdrew  her  hand. 

"  I  wonder  if  it's  better  to  be  like  this  ?"  she  asked 
herself.  "  I  seem  only  half  alive." 

Then  sitting  down  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  she 
tried  to  fix  her  attention  again  upon  her  book.  But 
somehow  her  thoughts  wandered.  She  seemed  to  see 
Dering,  to  hear  his  voice,  as  though  he  were  actually 
with  her.  The  words  of  A  Kempis  grew  suddenly 
cold  and  unreal  to  her  fancy,  as  though  written  from 
a  stand-point  too  much  apart  from  human  interest. 

Barbara  was  one  of  the  women  who  idealize  the 
absent.  She  remembered  only  the  kind  and  sympa 
thetic  moods  of  Dering.  His  harsh  words  had  all  been 
forgotten.  Like  most  generous,  impulsive  characters, 
she  forgave  fully  and  forgot  in  spite  of  herself,  and  when 
she  wished  to  record  some  offence  committed  against  her, 
unless  she  wrote  it  down  at  once,  she  had  a  blurred 
and  incoherent  memory  of  it  in  less  than  a  fortnight. 
Dering  appeared  to  her  always  pale  and  sorrowful, 
never  rough  and  indignant.  Often  she  had  an  almost 
intolerable  desire  to  write  to  him  and  beg  him  to 
send  her  some  words  of  forgiveness  with  which  to  com 
fort  herself  in  moments  of  acute  self-reproach.  The 
thought  of  his  saddened  life  made  her  heart  settle 
heavily  in  her  breast.  She  could  not  analyze  the  feel 
ing  exactly.  She  wished  to  see  him,  and  yet  the 
thought  of  it  was  painful.  She  longed  for  his  com 
panionship,  and  yet  dreaded  the  revival  of  the  old 
unrest  that  it  might  bring.  She  would  have  given  much 


BARBARA  DERING.  11 

to  ask  his  forgiveness  personally,  and  yet  the  fear  of 
hearing  him  refuse  it  filled  her  with  a  childish  terror. 

"  If  I  could  see  him,  just  for  a  minute,  I  think  it 
would  help  me,"  she  murmured.  A  long,  catching  sigh 
broke  from  her,  and  she  let  her  forehead  sink  against 
her  upturned  palms.  Some  one  stepped  upon  the  fallen 
leaves  at  her  side.  "  Barbara,"  said  the  voice  of  Bering. 


II. 

BARBARA  did  not  look  up  at  once.  For  an  instant  she 
was  overcome  with  actual,  sharp,  physical  fear.  Then, 
with  the  effort  that  we  sometimes  make  to  wake  from 
a  terrifying  dream,  she  started  convulsively  and  lifted 
her  eyes  to  his  face.  She  was  so  white  that  he,  in  his 
turn,  grew  frightened. 

"  I  ought  to  have  let  them  tell  you.  I  have  hurt  you. 
Forgive  me,"  he  said,  speaking  in  the  old  rapid  way, 
that  seemed  as  familiar  as  the  brown-leaved  oaks  about 
them. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  Tell  me.  Let  me  help  you,"  he 
urged.  "I'm  miserable  about  it.  Great  blundering 
idiot  that  I  am !" 

"It — was — so — sudden,"  Barbara  managed  to  say. 
Her  lips  were  still  colorless.  "  I  was  thinking  of— of 
you  just  at  that  moment.  Things  startle  me  more  than 
they  used  to." 

"  You  don't  look  as  strong  as  you  did,"  he  said,  anx 
iously  ;  then  with  great  gentleness,  "  My  poor  Barbara  1" 

"  Please  don't,"  she  said,  trembling.  "  I  can't  bear 
it."  He  sat  down  beside  her  and  lifted  the  fallen 


12  BARBARA  DERING. 

book  mechanically  from  the  ground.  "  The  same  old 
A  Kempis !"  he  could  not  help  exclaiming,  with  a  smile. 
"Do  you  still  open  books  for  advice  and  comfort  as 
you  used  to  do  ?" 

"  I  know  it's  very  childish,"  she  said,  flushing. 

"  I  always  loved  it  in  you,"  he  answered,  rather  ab 
sently.  "  But  what  heavy  markings !  And  here's  a  page 
all  puckered.  Dear  /"  he  ended,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  voice,  "  How  you  must  have  been  suffering  all  this 
time !" 

"  It  was  fair ;  I  deserved  it,"  she  said,  eagerly.  "  I'm 
so  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  that.  I  think  I'm  a  better 
woman  for  it.  Please  don't  think  I'm  pretending  to  be 
humble.  These  things  are  so  hard  to  say.  But  I  hope 
you  will  believe  me." 

"  Your  face  shows  it,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her. 
"  What  a  wonder  you  are !  I  thought  I  might  have 
exaggerated  your  eyes  in  this  long  absence.  But  I 
haven't.  They're  marvellous.  And  there's  something 
more — more — I  don't  mean  '  womanly'  exactly.  Help 
me  out,  dear.  We  were  always  frank  with  each  other." 

"  Perhaps  you  mean  they  are  gentler  ?"  she  suggested, 
almost  timidly.  "  I've  changed  very,  very  much  in  some 
things."  She  turned  away  suddenly  from  his  steady 
gaze,  a  deep  crimson  floating  even  over  her  smooth 
throat. 

"  Have  you  ?"  he  said.  "  I  wish  I  thought  you  had 
changed  'very,  very  much'  in  one  particular  thing, 
Barbara."  He  paused,  so  that  her  name  lingered  on 
her  ear  like  a  caress,  before  the  sentence  was  finished. 
"  You  must  know  why  I  am  here." 

She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say.  Her  lips  refused 
to  move  and  she  trembled. 

"But  you  shall  not  have  more  pain  to  bear,"  he 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  13 

continued.  "  Don't  look  like  that,  as  though  you  were 
afraid  of  me." 

"No,  no;  indeed  I'm  not,"  she  whispered. 

"  Well,  then,  try  to  be  quiet.  I'll  only  say  gentle, 
soothing  things.  And  if  I  make  you  unhappy  I'll  go 
away  without  another  word." 

"  No,  no !"  protested  Barbara,  her  lips  quivering ;  and 
then  with  a  sudden,  uncontrollable  burst  of  tears  she 
sobbed  out,  "  It  is  so  good  to  see  you.  I  have  missed 
you  so." 

Dering  sat  rigidly  self-controlled,  beating  the  palm  of 
one  hand  softly  with  his  doubled  fist,  in  his  determina 
tion  not  to  startle  or  offend  her  by  any  demonstration 
of  feeling,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  was  quite  calm 
again. 

"  I  haven't  cried  for  a  long  while,"  she  said  at  last, 
in  a  shy  voice.  "  I'm  dreadfully  ashamed  of  myself. 
I  think  it  must  have  been  the  shock  of  seeing  you  so 
suddenly." 

"  Why,  of  course  it  was,"  he  assured  her.  "  The  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  But  I'm  afraid  you've  been 
on  a  great  strain." 

"  I  think  it's  more  the  loneliness,"  she  said,  simply. 
"  One  gets  so  pent  up." 

"  Gad !  I  know  the  feeling,"  exclaimed  Bering.  "  I 
never  could  talk  of  myself  to  any  one  but  you.  Other 
chaps  chaff  so,  and,  as  a  rule,  I  make  an  awful  mess  of 
it  with  women." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  he 
said  suddenly, — 

"  Take  off  your  hat,  will  you  ?  I've  a  fancy  to  see 
you  without  it." 

Barbara  drew  out  the  long  pin  which  fastened  it 
above  her  plaits  and  uncovered  her  shining  head. 


14  BARBARA  DERING. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  so,"  said  Dering.  "  You've  got  it 
arranged  differently.  You  look  more  like  the  Milo  than 
ever  with  that  crinkly  parting.  And  you've  got  a  little 
nick  in  your  right  eyebrow  just  as  she  has." 

"  I'm  afraid  mine  is  nothing  more  romantic  than  a 
scar  from  varioloid,"  replied  Barbara. 

"  Well,  it's  delightful,  all  the  same.  By  Jove !  that 
parted  hair  makes  you  look  wonderfully  meek !" 

"  I  feel  meek,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"Then  it's  just  a  mental  coiffure,  too,  which  you 
happen  to  wear  this  afternoon.  Fancy  you  meek  !" 

"  I  see  you  don't  believe  how  I  have  changed." 

"  I  confess  I  can't  accept  the  idea  of  your  meekness." 

"  I  shall  have  to  prove  it  to  you." 

"  There  are  ways  I  could  suggest." 

"Of  course  people  might  differ  in  their  ideas  of 
meekness." 

"  Of  course." 

"  Some  people  might  call  spiritlessness  meekness." 

"Well,  isn't  it?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so ;  not  exactly." 

"  You  are  much  thinner,  too,"  observed  Dering,  with 
irrelevancy. 

"  Am  I  ?"  she  asked,  pinching  mechanically  her  loose 
sleeve.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am ;  but  then  I  always  was 
afausse  maigre" 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  looking  so  pale,  either." 

"  No,  I  don't  like  that,"  confessed  Barbara,  candidly. 
"  I  often  wish  it  wasn't  vulgar  to  use  a  touch  of  rouge." 

"Eouge  is  devilish,"  said  Dering,  harshly.  "If  a 
woman  whom  I  liked  were  to  use  rouge  and  I  found  it 
out,  I  believe  I  should  hate  her." 

"How  unjust!"  exclaimed  Barbara.  "It's  nothing 
but  a  custom,  after  all." 


BARBARA  DERING.  15 

"It  has  disagreeable  associations.  I've  always 
thought  it  a  hideous  idea.  But  your  paleness  is  lovely. 
I  only  dislike  it  because  it  means  you  have  been  ill." 

"  Oh,  no !"  said  Barbara.  "  I'm  almost  terribly  healthy. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  that  physical  pain  would  be 
a  great  relief." 

"  Oh,  you  poor  soul !"  exclaimed  the  young  man. 
He  half  put  out  his  hand  impetuously,  then  drew  it 
back. 

"You  have  changed,  too,"  she  said,  after  a  while. 
"  You  are  thinner  yourself." 

"  Oh,  I've  been  knocking  about  so.  For  one  thing, 
I  walked  a  good  bit  over  the  Himalayas  with  an  Eng 
lish  officer  not  long  ago ;  I  got  pretty  sick  of  it,  too  !" 

"  I  wish  women  could  do  that  sort  of  thing,"  sighed 
Barbara. 

"  Well,  so  they  can  nowadays." 

"  Yes ;  but  one  doesn't  like  the  idea  of  scampering 
around  the  globe  by  one's  self." 

"I  should  think  not,"  said  Bering,  with  rather  a 
grim  smile.  "  I — should — think — not,"  he  repeated, 
slowly,  this  time  with  a  laugh.  Barbara  rose  under  a 
sudden  impulse. 

"  It  is  getting  chilly,"  she  suggested.  "  Suppose  we 
walk." 

The  sun  had  appeared  through  a  molten-looking 
gap  in  the  gray  clouds,  and  there  was  an  uncertain 
wind.  As  they  walked  the  haze  gradually  cleared, 
and  a  great  green-gold  star  flared  out  in  the  north 
east. 

"  How  I  love  the  smell  of  the  corn !"  said  Barbara, 
throwing  back  her  head  with  one  of  her  free  gestures, 
"  and  the  pennyroyal !  It  is  the  essence  of  autumn 
to  me."  She  stooped,  and  gathering  a  spray  of  the 


16  BARBARA  DERINO. 

little,  transparent  blue  flowers,  with  their  rough,  dark 
leaves,  crushed  it,  to  bring  out  still  more  the  pungent 
odor,  and  held  it  close  to  her  nostrils. 

"  How  keen  you  are  about  everything !"  exclaimed 
Dering. 

"  No,  not  about  everything,"  she  answered,  seriously. 
"  I  was  thinking  to-day  how  much  less  I  feel  things 
than  I  used  to.  Sometimes  I  fancy  I  have  quite  the 
sensations  of  a  very  old  person." 

"That's  first-rate!"  he  cried,  laughing.  "There 
never  was  such  a  naive  creature.  No  wonder  other 
women  seem  flat  after  you." 

"  Do  they  ?'  asked  Barbara,  out  of  sheer  embarrass 
ment,  not  at  all  knowing  what  she  said. 

"  As  bits  of  paper,"  answered  Dering,  briefly. 

Barbara  could  not  help  laughing.  "  You  seem  rather 
fond  of  playing  with  paper-dolls,  then,"  she  retorted. 
':  I  have  heard  of  you  in  London  and  Paris  and  Eome. 
And  this  summer  I  am  sure  you  were  very  gay  at 
Newport.  I  even  heard  the  name  of  the  young  girl 
you  were  engaged  to." 

"  I've  been  trying  awfully  hard  to  fall  in  love  with 
some  one  ever  since  I  last  saw  you,"  said  Dering,  hon 
estly.  Barbara  was  glad  that  the  purplish  veil  of  tho 
twilight  hung  betwen  them. 

She  felt  that  he  was  watching  her  narrowly.  As 
they  passed  under  the  low-hanging  boughs  of  an  old 
cherry-tree,  she  saw  that  here  and  there  upon  the 
sleek  twigs  were  little  knots  of  white  bloom. 

"  Why,  it's  blossoming — and  in  September !"  she 
exclaimed.  She  broke  off  a  bit  and  held  it  out  to  him. 

"  Thank  you,  Barbara,"  he  said,  quietly.  "  Spring 
flowers  in  autumn.  It  is  a  good  omen.  I  feel  cheered." 


BARBARA  DERING.  17 


III. 

"  How  is  Siegfried  the  fair,  the  unlovable,  the  tiger- 
lily  maid  of  Rosemary  ?"  asked  Bering,  as  they  went 
up  the  low  stone  steps  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
"  Does  she  still  knit  as  many  baby-socks  and  drop  as 
many  stitches  as  ever  ?" 

"  How  absurd !  I  had  forgot  that  you  called  her 
'  Siegfried,' "  laughed  Barbara.  "  Yes,  she  is  just  the 
same." 

"  Everything  seems  the  same,"  he  said,  with  a  sort 
of  curt  breath  that  was  his  nearest  approach  to  a  sigh. 
"  But  where  are  you  taking  me  ?  This  isn't  the  way 
to  the  drawing-room." 

"  £To.  I'm  a  great  musician  now.  I  have  a  music- 
room." 

They  went  up  a  short  stair-way  and  she  opened  a 
door.  Before  them  lay  a  long,  wide  apartment,  with 
a  large  window  at  one  end,  which  framed  the  dying 
light  without,  and  through  which  they  saw  the  vapory 
saffron  of  the  just-risen  moon  magnified  by  the  mists, 
which  were  again  gathering.  Beyond,  the  fields  lay 
dully  gold,  fretted  with  violet  shadows,  and  some  dead 
acacias  were  etched  against  a  rose-brown  sky.  A 
curious  smell  of  lemons,  fur,  and  flowers  filled  the  room. 
In  the  immense  fireplace  the  core  of  a  wood-fire  glowed 
richly.  There  were  heavy  curtains  of  crimson  brocade, 
and  the  walls  were  panelled  to  the  ceiling  with  light 
oak.  A  grand  piano  stood  among  a  little  group  of 
lemon-trees  in  one  corner. 

Pictures  of  the  sea,  in  storm  and  calm,  hung  low, 
6  2* 


18  BARBARA  DERING. 

above  the  lounging  chairs,  and  carved  tables.  There 
was  a  lion-skin  on  the  hearth. 

"I  spend  most  of  my  time  here,"  said  Barbara.  "I 
have  never  played  for  you,  have  I  ?" 

"  No.  You  had  no  piano  when  I  was  here  before. 
I  love  music.  Can't  I  have  some  now  ?" 

"  Presently ;  but  let  us  get  warm  first.  You  know 
my  lazy  ways.  To  be  entirely  happy  I  must  have 
on  a  tea-gown.  I  will  send  you  some  tea  while  I 
am  gone." 

Left  alone,  Dering  threw  himself  on  a  sofa  which 
was  drawn  up  to  one  side  of  the  fireplace,  settled 
down  among  the  heap  of  cushions,  with  his  head 
thrown  back  on  his  interlaced  fingers  and  his  eyes 
closed.  The  feeling  uppermost  in  his  brain  was  that 
he  was  again  under  the  same  roof  with  Barbara. 
Somewhere,  not  far  away,  she  was  brushing  out  the 
ripples  of  her  vivid  hair ;  the  things  that  she  loved 
and  touched  daily  were  all  about  him  ;  the  very  cush 
ions  upon  which  his  head  rested  held  that  perfume  of 
Iris  and  Damask  roses  with  which  he  always  associ 
ated  her.  She  would  come  again  in  a  few  moments, 
and  he  would  speak  with  her  and  watch  the  firelight 
in  her  eyes  and  on  her  glancing  throat.  Barbara — 
Barbara — Barbara, — the  very  name  had  a  strange 
charm  and  vitality  in  it.  How  short  now  seemed  the 
years  which  had  been  so  long  spent  away  from  her ! 

"  All  things  come  to  him  who  knows  how  to  wait," 
he  muttered,  drowsily,  and  just  as  he  finished  speaking 
the  door  opened  and  she  stole  in.  He  gazed  at  her 
curiously  as  she  came  forward  with  long,  slow  steps, 
and  at  last  stood  silent  before  the  fire,  looking  down 
at  her  graceful  hands,  which  she  held  out  as  though  to 
warm  them.  She  was  all  in  white.  An  old  necklace 


BARBARA  DERING.  19 

of  seed-pearls  and  great  green  jewels  made  splashes  of 
color  in  the  flickering  light. 

"  That  is  the  same  gown  you  used  to  wear,"  he  said, 
quietly,  though  his  heart  was  jumping. 

"  Yes,"  was  all  that  she  answered. 

"  But  I  never  saw  the  necklace  before." 

"No;  it's  an  old  family  relic.  These  aren't  real; 
they're  what  the  French  call  bijoux  de  fantaisie.  It's 
a  French  thing." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Will  you  play  for  me  now  ?"  asked  Bering,  finally. 

"Are  you  sure  that  you  really  love  music?"  she 
returned,  smiling. 

"  I  tell  you  I  dote  on  it !"  he  exclaimed,  rather  im 
patiently.  "  Please  don't  tease  me." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Barbara,  docilely,  and  moved 
towards  the  piano.  A  low,  murmuring  melody  began 
to  float  through  the  room.  Dering,  who  loved  music 
without  comprehending  it,  closed  his  eyes  and  drew  in 
his  breath  luxuriously,  half  fancying  that  the  light 
touch  of  her  fingers  was  falling  upon  his  hair.  Ho 
told  himself  that  he  had  had  a  bad  dream  last  night, 
that  no  surly  years  of  dogged  resolution  separated  the 
past  from  the  present,  and  that  when  she  took  her 
hands  from  the  piano-keys  she  would  come  and  slip 
them  into  his  with  the  old  freedom.  But  instead,  she 
let  her  white  length  sink  slowly  into  a  deep  chair  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  said  that  she  was 
too  tired  to  play  any  more.  A  little  Angora  kitten 
trotted  suddenly  out  of  the  shadows,  and  jumping 
upon  her  knee,  began  to  pat  with  one  paw  at  the 
jewel  which  fastened  her  gown.  She  caressed  it 
smiling,  and  Dering  could  hear  distinctly  its  loud  purr 
of  delight.  Somehow  this  irritated  him. 


20  BARBARA  DERING. 

"  You  used  not  to  like  cats,"  he  said,  rather  gruffly. 

"  But  I  always  liked  kittens,"  returned  Barbara. 

"  That  distinction's  a  little  beyond  me." 

"  Why,  they're  quite  different,  I  think.  Kittens  are 
dear  mites,  so — so Could  one  say  cuddlesome  ?" 

"  One  could  if  one  felt  the  need,"  he  answered,  with 
the  dry  laugh  that  she  remembered. 

"  Now  I've  vexed  you !"  she  exclaimed,  penitently. 
"Get  down,  Higgles."  Miggles  struck  the  lion-skin 
with  a  soft  bounce,  and  began  to  play  good-naturedly 
with  her  evasive  tail. 

"  What  has  become  of  the  greyhounds  ?"  said  Dering. 

"  Oh,  they  sucked  eggs  so  that  they  had  to  go. 
But  I  have  a  supreme  favorite  now  that  takes  the 
place  of  all  the  rest." 

"What  on  earth  can  that  be  ?— A  bear  cub?"  he 
suggested,  crossly.  Barbara  laughed. 

"No.  It's  my  horse,  Wilful.  Such  a  dear!  The 
color  of  my  hair,  with  a  white  splash  on  his  forehead. 
And  red-silk  nostrils.  His  muzzle  would  fit  in  a  tea 
cup,  and  yet  he's  seventeen  hands.  Such  hoofs !  like 
black  onyx,  and  his  pasterns  spring  out  of  them  like 
gold-flames.  He's  as  wild  as  a  hawk,  and  I  was  going 
to  say  as  kind  as  a  kitten,  but  the  simile  might  jar," 
she  ended,  mischievously.  She  could  never  resist  teas 
ing  him  in  one  of  his  surly  fits. 

"  This  is  another  new  taste,"  he  said,  still  grum.  "  I 
didn't  know  you  rode." 

"Yes,  very  well,"  she  assured  him,  with  feigned 
gravity.  "  I'll  put  Wilful  over  some  fences  for  you." 

"  Snake-fences  ?"  asked  Dering,  with  his  grin.  "  If 
he  jumps  snake-fences,  you  ought  to  call  him  Peg 
asus." 

"How  very  witty!"  said  Barbara,  and  they  both 


BARBARA  DERING.  21 

laughed.  Neither  spoke  for  Borne  moments,  and  then 
Dering  said,  suddenly, — 

"  Hold  up  your  hand  a  second." 

She  did  so,  wondering. 

"No.     Your  left  hand." 

She  drew  it  from  under  the  kitten,  which  had  again 
jumped  into  her  lap,  and  lifted  it  in  the  firelight,  then 
started  and  flushed,  dropping  it  among  the  folds  of  her 
gown. 

"  So  you  found  it  ?"  asked  Dering,  whose  mood  was 
undoubtedly  malign. 

"  I — I  hate  you  when  you  speak  to  me  like  that !" 
she  cried,  springing  imperiously  to  her  great  height. 
"You  make  me  hate  you!"  she  repeated,  passionately. 
Her  heart  had  not  throbbed  with  such  emotion  for 
many  months. 

Bering's  eyes  were  masterful.  As  he  gazed  at  her 
in  silence  she  turned  her  head  nervously  aside,  and 
presently  went  over  to  the  open  window,  through 
which  the  moonlight  now  fell  in  a  long,  barred  pattern 
upon  the  polished  floor.  He  followed  her.  She  heard 
his  voice  at  her  shoulder. 

"You'd  be  apt  to  forgive  what  a  man  said  under 
thumb-screws, — eh,  Barbara  ?" 

"  You  can  be  so  horribly  cruel,"  she  gasped. 

"And  you?" 

"  I  have  done  nothing, — nothing." 

"  Not  this  time,  but  that  evening  we  were  both  think 
ing  of  just  now." 

"  When  you  say  things  like  that  to  me  you  change 
all  my  thoughts." 

"  Thoughts  of  what,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  Of  you." 

"Of  me?    Barbara!" 


22  BARBARA  DERINO. 

"No!  don't  touch  me.  You  have  been  too  cruel 
Don't,— don't !" 

But  he  had  her  hands  in  his.  Their  eyes  defied  each 
other.  In  the  man's  was  a  certain  mocking  look. 
She  saw  it  at  once  and  her  pupils  spread  with  anger. 

"  You  wild  thing !  You  tigress !  How  you  would 
like  to  hurt  me  I  But  I  have  you  fast." 

"  Let  me  go  !  You  rouse  all  the  wickedness  in  me. 
You  make  me  wicked.  I  felt  so  gentle  to  you.  I 
wished  to  make  amends  to  you.  When  you  hold  me 
like  this  something  in  me  rises  against  you."  Her 
voice  changed  suddenly  to  a  sort  of  wail:  "Jock! 
Jock !  do  you  really  mean  to  hurt  me  so  ?" 

She  felt  him  drop  to  his  knees  beside  her  and  draw 
the  soft  stuff  of  her  gown  close  about  his  face.  They 
remained  in  this  position  for  a  second  or  two,  quite 
silent,  then  she  stooped  and  touched  his  curls  timidly 
with  her  lips. 

"  Oh,  Barbara !"  he  whispered,  with  a  great  boyish 
sigh,  and,  putting  up  his  hand,  pressed  her  cheek 
against  his,  and  so  held  her  in  her  bending  attitude. 

"  Is  it  sweet  ?"  he  asked  presently,  still  in  a  whisper. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  trembling. 

"As  it  used  to  be?" 

"  More,"  trembling  greatly. 

"  More  ?    Darling,  then  give  me  your  lips." 

"  No,  no !  Let  me  go  now.  To-morrow, — to-morrow, 
Jock.  I  promise.  Indeed,  indeed !  Let  me  go." 

"  To-morrow,  then  ?    You  swear  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes !     I  swear  it." 

"  But  when,  to-morrow ?    Where?    When,  Barbara ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Only  let  me  go,  now.  I  am  ill, — 
I  am  dizzy.  I  have  promised.  You  hurt  my  throat 
keeping  it  bent  so." 


BARBARA  DERING.  23 

"  One  minute.     Let  me  kiss  you." 

"  I  cannot.  I  must  not.  It  is  for  life  and  death  this 
time.  It  will  be  final.  I  must  think, — I  must  pray.  I 
tell  you,  you  are  really  hurting  me." 

"Well,  then!"  He  released  her,  with  a  quick 
breath,  and  jumped  to  his  feet ;  but  before  he  could 
Bpeak  to  her  again  she  had  slipped  past  him  with  a 
supple  movement  and  left  the  room. 


IV. 

THE  next  morning,  while  he  was  drinking  his  coffee 
in  the  same  lodging  that  he  had  occupied  on  his  former 
visit  to  the  neighborhood,  Beauregard  Walsingham 
entered  and  placed  a  small  blue  envelope  beside  his 
plate.  Bering's  heart  gave  a  quick  flare  of  expecta 
tion,  and  he  handed  Beauregard  a  silver  piece,  which 
the  small  black  at  once  tucked  away  into  one  of  his 
cheeks  with  his  old  gesture  and  a  low  bow  of  thanks. 
When  he  was  alone,  Dering  tore  open  the  envelope 
with  an  eagerness  which  gave  his  eyes  a  stern  glare 
and  drew  a  deep  mark  between  his  dark  brows.  As 
he  read,  the  expression  of  his  face  died  into  a  pale 
quietude,  and  he  ended  by  crumpling  the  note  slowly 
in  one  hand  and  tossing  it  into  the  fire.  It  had  run 
as  follows : 

"  There  is  to  be  a  country  dance  to-night  at  an  over 
seer's  house  two  miles  from  here.  I  know  his  wife  very 
well,  and  have  helped  her  to  nurse  her  children  in  ill 
ness,  so  I  can  invite  myself  and  bring  any  friend  I 
choose  with  me.  Aunt  Fridis  will  chaperon  us.  I 


24  BARBARA  DERINO. 

fancy  it  will  be  very  funny.     Do  you  care  to  come  ?    I 
am  going.  B." 

When  Bering  reached  Rosemary  that  evening  Bar 
bara  was  not  ready,  but  she  entered  in  a  few  moments 
buttoning  her  long  glove.  Her  short  gown  of  trans 
parent  black  with  its  gold  belt  gave  her  a  girlish  look. 
Her  hair  was  twisted  high  into  a  sort  of  helmet  shape, 
and  in  it  sparkled  a  winged-comb  of  small  diamonds. 

"  You  beauty !"  said  Bering,  under  his  breath, 
watching  her  from  his  place  at  the  mantle-shelf,  but 
not  coming  towards  her. 

"  What  ?"  she  asked,  a  little  nervously.  "  I  didn't 
hear  what  you  said." 

"Oh,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  on  our  way  home," 
said  Bering,  quietly.  "  I  suppose  our  Siegfried  is  very 
wonderful  in  ball  attire  ?" 

"  No ;  she's  rather  nice.     I  did  her  myself." 

Miss  Fridiswig  here  entered  in  a  dark-green  silk 
with  black  lace  draperies.  Her  pink  curls  had  been 
imprisoned  into  careful  plaits,  and  her  small  red  nose 
elaborately  powdered.  She  giggled  and  circled  about 
Bering,  flirting  her  unusual  costume  this  way  and  that 
for  his  admiration. 

"You're  positively  stunning,  Miss  Fridis,"  he  assured 
her,  and  she  coyly  fastened  in  his  button-hole  a  white 
carnation  and  a  bit  of  fern  as  a  reward  for  this  gallant 
speech. 

The  road  was  terribly  rough,  but  there  was  brilliant 
moonlight,  and  they  did  not  seem  long  in  reaching  the 
scene  of  the  dance.  Along  the  whitewashed  fence, 
which  surrounded  what  in  Virginia  is  so  often  called 
"  the  circle," — that  is,  the  round  plot  of  grass  edged 
with  a  carriage-way, — they  saw  traps  of  all  sorts  and 


BARBARA  DERING.  25 

unsaddled  horses.     The  monotonous  sound  of  a  tinny 
piano  and  two  fiddles  scraped  against  their  ears. 

Inside  was  a  merry  noise  of  dancing,  laughter,  and 
shrieking.  Barbara  grew  quite  excited,  and  the  small 
feet  of  Miss  Fridiswig  pattered  on  the  floor  of  the 
carriage. 

"Come!"  cried  Barbara.  "Do  let's  hurry!  I'm 
afraid  we're  late  now!" 

They  entered  a  narrow  hall  lighted  by  a  kerosene- 
lamp,  and  a  glistening  black  girl  beckoned  them  up 
stairs  to  take  off  their  wraps.  When  they  came  down 
their  hostess  met  them,  affable  and  glowing  in  a 
costume  of  lace  window-curtain  over  Turkey- red 
calico. 

"Now,  this  cert'n'y  is  nice  of  you  to  come,  Mis' 
Pomfret!  The  gyrls  cert'n'y  will  be  pleased!"  she 
said,  clasping  Barbara's  arm  in  a  moist  but  hospitable 
palm.  "  They're  darncin'  th'  Coquette.  All  the  young 
fellows  're  engaged,  but  you'n  Mr. — Mr. " 

"  This  is  Mr.  Bering,  Mrs.  Twampler,"  put  in  Bar 
bara,  flushing. 

"You'n  Mr.  Dering  '11  make  ellergant  partners." 
Then  she  broke  off  and  stared  at  Dering  in  a  way 
that  made  him  frown. 

He  had  given  a  swift  guess  at  what  happened  to  be 
the  truth, — namely,  that  Mrs.  Twampler  had  heard  the 
story  of  his  former  acquaintance  with  Barbara. 

His  frown  deepened  into  an  air  of  such  grimness  that 
his  hostess  gave  a  nervous  laugh  and  began  to  arrange 
the  large  hair-brooch  which  dented  her  ample  chin. 

She  then  provided  chairs  for  Barbara  and  Dering, 
who  said  that  they  did  not  know  how  to  dance  "  The 
Coquette,"  and,  after  seeing  them  settled,  bore  Miss 
Fridiswig  away. 

B  3 


26  BARBARA  DERIXG. 

11  Try  not  to  look  quite  so  glum,"  whispered  Barbara, 
presently,  fanning  herself  and  looking  at  the  dancers,  as 
though  not  thinking  of  her  companion.  "  I  thought  it 
would  amuse  you.  You  really  make  me  feel  as  though 
I  were  boring  you." 

"  Did  you  ever  try  to  find  Mark  Twain  funny  when 
you  didn't  feel  in  the  humor?" 

"Ye-es." 

"  Well,  then,  you  have  an  excellent  idea  of  my  pres 
ent  sensations." 

"  But  act  a  little.  Can't  you  pretend  ?  After  all,  it's 
not  very  flattering  to  me." 

"  What  on  earth  made  you  bring  me  to  this  con 
founded  place,  then  ?  It's  enough  to  put  a  seraph  out 
of  temper.  Idiots!" 

"  I'm  sure  I  didn't  urge  you  to  come." 

"  No ;  but  you  knew  perfectly  well  that  I  would.  I 
was  determined  to  see  you  to-day." 

"  Now  that  you  see  me,  you  don't  seem  to  appreciate 
it." 

"  In  this  den  ?     I  fancy  not !" 

Barbara  was  silent,  trying  not  to  laugh.  The  fact 
was  that  she  had  taken  this  desperate  means  of  delay, 
ing  her  interview  with  Dering,  and  could  not  help  find 
ing  his  impotent  rage  amusing,  although  her  soul  was 
torn  with  its  great  struggle.  She  had  not  slept  the 
night  before.  The  hand  that  held  her  fan  trembled, 
and  tears  were  as  near  her  eyes  as  laughter  to  her 
lips. 

"  Good  Lord  !  this  is  too  much !"  burst  forth  Dering 
suddenly  in  a  whispered  explosion.  "There's  that 
infernal  ass !" 

"  Who  ?    Where  ?"  asked  Barbara,  startled. 

"  Why,  there  in  front  of  you,  dancing  this  monkey- 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  27 

shine.   I  forget  what  it's  called.   There!  in  that  flowered 
waistcoat.     Our  old  friend  Buzzy !     What  an  ape !" 

"  Hush !"  said  Barbara.  "  He  hasn't  seen  us.  Don't 
look  at  him." 

Buzzy,  who  was  "  coquetting"  to  a  huge  girl  in  blue 
silesia,  fastened  up  her  square,  waistless  back  with  white 
shoe-buttons,  capered  on,  unconscious  of  the  angry 
eyes  which  Dering  had  fastened  upon  his  pomatumed 
locks.  He  wore  a  dress-coat  too  large  for  him,  lined 
and  faced  with  bright  blue  satin,  a  tie  to  match,  and  a 
waistcoat  embroidered  with  rose-buds. 

The  Coquette  is  a  dance  which  is  executed  in  the  fol 
lowing  manner :  the  company  being  arranged  in  a  circle, 
the  young  man  or  woman  whose  turn  it  is  to  coquette 
advances  with  coy  movements,  which  keep  time  to  a 
spirited  tune,  towards  the  person  opposite.  At  the  last 
moment  a  toss  of  the  head  or  a  tantalizing  placing  of 
the  hands  behind  the  back  signifies  that  the  male  or 
female  coquette  has  decided  to  select  a  different  partner, 
and  this  engaging  performance  is  renewed  indefinitely. 

Had  Dering  not  been  in  one  of  his  most  perverse  moods 
he  would  have  driven  a  much  longer  distance  over 
rougher  roads  to  see  Buzzy's  present  antics ;  but  there 
are  moments  in  which  our  sense  of  humor  seems 
crowded  out  by  fiercer  emotions,  and  Dering  followed 
with  sombre  eyes  the  evolutions  of  the  flowered  waist 
coat  about  the  silesia  bodice.  He  even  watched,  without 
a  smile,  one  lank  woman  of  thirty -five,  who  was  at  least 
six  feet  tall,  and  who  wore  a  pale-green  cotton-velvet 
corsage  over  a  skirt  of  pink  tarlatan,  giggle  through 
the  most  complicated  contortions  before  six  different 
swains,  and  select  finally  a  dapper  little  youth  of  twenty 
with  a  cosey  dimple  in  his  chapped  chin.  Once  only 
during  the  evening  was  there  so  much  as  a  flicker 


28  BARBARA   DERING. 

about  his  lips.  It  was  when,  just  before  supper,  the 
women,  old  and  young,  left  the  room,  and  returned  hav 
ing  their  front  ringlets  frankly  powdered  with  flour. 
Brunette  and  blonde  alike  had  adopted  this  coiffure,  and 
bore  themselves  with  a  self-satisfied  air,  evidently  the 
result  of  conscious  beauty. 

After  supper — a  repast  of  which  Dering  had  refused 
to  partake,  in  spite  of  Barbara's  urgings — a  polka  was 
struck  up,  and  Mrs.  Twampler  was  seen  coming  towards 
them  with  the  blue-silesia  young  woman  hanging  be 
hind,  but  still  advancing,  though  reluctantly. 

"  Mis'  Pomfret,  this  is  Miss  Huggins  from  over  Tur 
key  Mountain.  Mr.  Dering,  sir,  let  me  interjuce  yuh 
tuh  Mis'  Huggins.  She's  mighty  light  on  her  feet," 
she  added,  as  though  in  apology  for  the  young  lady's 
solid  figure.  "  She's  heaps  the  bes'  darncer  down  our 
way.  I  hope,  sir,"  she  continued,  extending  one  comfort 
able  hand,  upon  which  rested  the  fat  white  fingers  of 
Miss  Huggins,  boneless  and  with  square,  dark-rimmed 
tips, — "  I  hope,  sir,  you'll  oblige  me  by  darncin'  this 
polka  with  her,  as  yuh  don't  seem  tuh  be  havin'  a  very 
gay  time." 

Barbara  was  at  first  too  appalled  by  Bering's  expres 
sion  to  feel  any  inclination  to  laugh,  but  as  she  saw  him 
helplessly  advance  and  place  his  arm  across  the  vast 
back  of  Miss  Huggins,  she  started  up,  and,  after  looking 
wildly  about  her  for  an  instant,  rushed  to  the  nearest 
window  and,  flinging  up  the  sash,  thrust  her  head  far 
out  into  the  frosty  glare. 

"  Mind !  that  button's  loose !"  called  Mrs.  Twampler, 
following  her.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  Th'  room  too 
warm?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  murmured  Barbara.  "  Can  we  stay  here 
a  little  while,  Mrs.  Twampler  ?" 


BARBARA  DERING.  29 

"  Why  or  cose,"  said  Mrs.  Twampler,  cheerily.  "  Yuh 
do  look  sorter  weakish.  Will  yuh  have  some  blackb'ry 
cordial?" 

"No,  thank  you  so  much  You  are  very,  very 
kind,"  said  Barbara,  who  was  apt  to  gush  to  the  lower 
classes  in  her  excessive  desire  to  be  civil.  "  I  never 
drink  cordials." 

"Don't  yuh,  now?  Why,  yuh  look's  if  'twould  be 
reel  good  fuh  yuh.  Do  yuh  have  rheumatism  ?  Poke- 
b'ry  an'  whiskey's  perffeckly  ellergant  fuh  rheumatism. 
Lemme  give  yuh  haifer  bottle.  Do  now  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I  never  have  rheumatism ;  but  thank  you 
ever  so  much  all  the  same.  How  delicious  this  air  is ! 
Is — is  Mr.  Dering  still  dancing  ?" 

"No,  he  ain't  darncin'  now.  He's  fannin'  Pussy 
Huggins.  She  does  darnce  beautiful  that  girl,  though 
yoh  wouldn't  think  it  from  her  fat.  But  then  fat 
people  oughtn't  tuh  be  so  heavy  by  rights.  I've  heard 
tell  as  how  reel  fat  people  float  in  th'  water  like  corks. 
Is  it  true,  you  reckon  ?" 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara,  hesitatingly.  "  I 
think  it  is." 

"  Well,  I  'clare !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Twampler.  "  It's 
hard  tuh  take  in,  ain't  it,  now?  But  you'd  better 
come  'way  from  this  winder  'fore  yuh  ketch  yo'  death. 
Oh,  here's  my  nephew,  Horace  Buzzy.  I  think  you 
wuz  very  kynd  tuh  him  onct  on  th'  way  tuh  Charlottes- 
ville.  Didn't  his  waggin  break  down,  or  somethin'  ?" 

"  Did  you  say  his  first  name  was — was  Horace  ?" 
asked  Barbara  in  a  low  voice,  with  her  head  still  out 
of  the  window. 

"Yes.  His  ma  loves  them  hifalutin'  names.  He's 
got  a  sister  name  Una,  an'  another  name  Antonet,  an' 
his  little  buddy's  called  Norval.  You  know  it's  from 

3* 


30  BARBARA   DERING. 

that  verse  of  poetry  'bout  th'  Grampus  hills.  Some 
body  told  me  th'  other  day  that  them  hills  went  under 
water  in  Scotland  an'  came  up  in  Faginia  ez  th'  Blue 
Eidge,  but  I  reckon  they  wuz  gasin'.  Here's  Horace 
now.  Howdy  Horace.  O'  cose  you  know  Mis'  Pom- 
fret  ?" 

"Well,  I  reckon!  hyah!  hyah!"  exclaimed  Buzzy. 
"  Wuzn't  that  'bout  th'  wust  busted  waggin  ever  you 
saw,  Mis'  Pomfret?"  Then,  without  waiting  for  a 
reply,  "See  yo'  fren's  back.  Wuzn't  he  jess  ragirf 
with  me  'bout  two  years  ago  ?"  and  again  he  became 
mirthful. 

"  You  cert'n'y  have  been  flirtin'  shameful  with  Pussy 
Huggins,  Horace.  Ef  I  wuz  th'  other  gyrls  I  wouldn't 
speak  tuh  you  tuh  save  yo'  neck." 

"  Well,  you  couldn'  be  but  one  other  gyrl !"  cried 
Buzzy,  jovially.  "  Though  there  is  enough  or  yuh  tuh 
make  two,  Aunt  Looly !  Hyah !  hyah !" 

He  then  turned  to  Barbara : 

"  Say,  Mr.  What's-his-name,  yo'  friend's  run  off  with 
my  mash.  It's  jess  'bout  fyar  you  should  come  'long 
with  me,  don'cher  think  ?  Less  have  a  polka." 

Barbara  was  protesting,  and  Buzzy  endeavoring  to 
put  his  long  arm  about  her  waist,  when  she  saw  Dering 
approaching  with  an  expression  of  condensed  fury 
about  his  lowered  brows.  He  said  good-night  to  Mrs. 
Twampler  with  an  abruptness  which  astonished  that 
kind  soul,  and,  bearing  the  drowsy  Miss  Fridiswig  off 
on  his  other  elbow  from  her  nook  by  the  fire,  placed 
both  ladies  in  the  carriage  before  they  were  quite 
aware  of  what  had  happened.  "  I'm  cold !  I've  left 
my  mantilla  up-stairs!"  whimpered  Miss  Fridiswig, 
shivering.  "  How  very  impetuous  Mr.  Dering  always 
is,  Barbara !" 


BARBARA   DERING.  31 

"  Yes,  it's  certainly  rather  chilly,"  assented  her  niece, 
who  was  laughing  weakly. 

Dering,  who  had  dashed  off  when  Miss  Cabell  began 
speaking,  now  returned  with  an  armful  of  wraps,  in 
which  he  proceeded  to  enfold  his  companions.  Miss 
Fridiswig  struggled  bravely  to  get  her  mantilla  adjusted 
properly  to  her  little  figure,  but  Barbara  submitted  with 
entire  meekness  to  having  her  long  cloak  thrown  about 
her  upside  down  and  its  sleeves  crossed  upon  her  lap. 
This  feat  accomplished,  Dering  arranged  his  silk  muffler 
fiercely  about  his  throat,  drew  on  a  pair  of  fur-lined 
gloves,  and  flung  himself  into  the  carriage  beside  Bar- 
bara. 

"I  suppose  I  need  not  apologize,"  he  said  behind  his 
teeth,  as  they  drove  off.  "  I  suppose  you  have  had 
enough  fun  at  that  delightful  entertainment.  By  gad! 
my  coat  smells  yet  of  that  Huggins  creature's  patch 
ouli  !  I'm  glad  you  find  it  so  amusing,  Barbara.  I 
fancy  you  won't  mind  my  smoking  until  you've  thor 
oughly  indulged  your  inclination  for  mirth.  A  good 
cigar  will  be  better  than  this  stench,  at  all  events !" 

He  lighted  a  cigar  with  savage  energy,  and,  drawing 
the  rugs  about  him,  settled  himself  grimly  in  one 
corner. 

"  I  suppose  it  will  add  to  your  amusement  to  know 
that  I've  caught  a  cold  into  the  bargain !"  he  announced, 
before  relapsing  into  final  silence. 

"  If  you  have  pneumonia,  I  promise  to  come  and 
nurse  you,"  said  Barbara,  with  soft  seriousness. 

"  Umph !"  returned  Dering,  grumpily. 


32  BARBARA  DERING. 


V. 

AFTER  a  while  Barbara  stood  up  and  put  on  the 
cloak,  which  Bering  had  only  tucked  about  her  shoul 
ders.  Miss  Fridiswig  had  drawn  her  tiny  heelless 
slippers  up  on  the  seat,  and  was  napping  comfortably, 
with  her  head  on  her  huge  old-fashioned  muff. 

"  Does  this  smoke  bother  you  ?  Shall  I  throw  away 
my  cigar  ?"  asked  Dering,  suddenly, 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  answered ,  "  I  don't  mind  it  at  all,  and 
Aunt  Fridis  is  asleep." 

"  I'm  going  to  throw  it  away,  at  any  rate,"  he  said, 
finally. 

The  horses  were  walking  slowly  up  a  steep  hill,  and 
the  branches  of  some  shrubs  brushed  softly  against  the 
sides  of  the  carriage. 

"  Are  you  very  tired,  Barbara  ?"  he  asked  again  after 
some  moments. 

"  A  little.     It's  rather  pleasant." 

"  Why  in  the  name  of  common  sense  did  you  drag 
me  and  yourself  to  this  ridiculous  thing  ?" 

"  I — sometimes  they  are  very  amusing.  You  were 
very  funny  with  Miss  Huggins." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say." 

"  But  I  am  glad  you  saved  me  from  Buzzy." 

"  Impudent  jackanapes !" 

"Is  Miss  Huggins  as  beautiful  a  'darncer'  as  Mrs. 
Twampler  said  ?" 

"Ugh!  What  an  awful  thing  she  was  to  touch! 
And  how  abominably  she  smelt !  If  there's  anything 
I  loathe,  it's  patchouli.  Are  you  comfortable  ?" 

"  Yes,  thank  you." 

He  leaned  forward  to  draw  the  wrap  more  securely 


BARBARA   DERING.  33 

about  her,  and  his  hand  touched  hers.  He  let  his 
fingers  rest  where  they  were,  and  her  hand,  though  it 
quivered  a  little,  was  not  withdrawn.  In  the  silence 
that  followed  they  descended  another  hill  and  crossed 
a  stream. 

"  What  a  cool  night  for  this  season !"  she  said,  under 
her  breath. 

"  Yes,  awfully,"  replied  Dering.  He  had  her  hand 
in  both  his  now,  her  lithe  arm  lay  lightly  along  his 
sleeve.  She  had  turned  her  head,  as  though  looking 
at  the  brown  fields  without. 

There  was  something  about  him  that  dominated  and 
mastered  her  as  of  old,  though  her  soul  was  not  at 
peace,  and  she  felt  uncertain  as  to  the  road  that  she 
was  to  follow. 

She  sat  quite  motionless.  His  touch  was  like  an 
elixir  of  life  flowing  through  her  veins,  which  had  so 
long  been  numb.  At  least  one  would  live  in  the  pres 
ence  of  this  man.  Existence  would  not  be  the  mere 
consciousness  which  it  was  under  ordinary  circum 
stances. 

He  leaned  a  little  towards  her,  and  half  involuntarily 
she  made  a  motion  of  agreement.  Their  cheeks  were 
very  near  together.  Presently  they  touched,  but  still 
no  word  was  spoken.  She  felt  his  face  turning  slowly 
until  his  lips  rested  on  the  delicate  curve  just  below 
her  ear. 

"  How  your  heart  is  beating !"  he  whispered. 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  Barbara." 

"  Hush !     Don't.     She  will  hear  you." 

"  Faugh !     She  is  sound  as  a  tabby/' 

"  She  may  be  pretending." 

"How  you  dote  on  teasing  me! — eh?    But  I  know 


34  BARBARA  DER1NG. 

you.  Give  me  your  hand,  I  say.  The  other  I  There, 
now !  Come  to  me  again." 

"  I  cannot !  I  cannot !  Don't  ask  me.  Oh,  why  is 
it  so  sweet  ?" 

"  Because  it  is  meant  to  be, — because  you  must  yield 
to  it.  Darling,  why  can't  you  just  give  yourself  to  me 
without  all  this  fuss  ?  We  could  be  married  so  easily. 
There,  I've  startled  you  now.  You'd  be  off  like  a 
shot  if  you  could.  Come,  Barbara ;  come,  my  beauty ! 
Let  me  take  you  and  make  you  happy.  I  could." 

"Yes,— I— I  think  that." 

"  Then  stop  struggling.  Tell  me  you  will  marry  me. 
Never  mind  haunting  thoughts,  only  be  my  wife,  and 
I  will  exorcise  them.  Never  fear." 

Barbara's  pulses  were  vibrating  wildly.  She  was 
confused  by  crowding  thoughts.  At  last  one  stood  out 
clear,  definite.  She  owed  this  man  a  reparation  for 
the  way  she  had  treated  him  in  the  past.  The  old 
morbidness  was  gone.  She  could  not  add  to  or  take 
away  from  her  dead  husband's  happiness.  Besides, 
for  Dering  she  felt  a  love  new,  different,  but  very 
powerful.  Life  without  him  seemed  to  hold  nothing 
but  loneliness.  With  him  she  might  accomplish  many 
things  which  now  appeared  impossible.  He  felt  that 
she  was  wavering  and  pressed  her  close  against  his 
side. 

"  There  is  only  one  end  of  it  for  us  both,  Barbara. 
Why  do  you  take  such  delight  in  drawing  out  the 
agony?  Why  not  give  in?  You'll  have  to.  You 
can't  send  me  away  a  second  time.  What  a  preposter 
ous  ass  I  was  to  listen  to  you !  I  ought  to  have  turned 
back  at  the  lawn  gate.  I  know  you  would  have  given 
your  little  finger  to  call  me  from  the  window.  Why 
don't  you  answer?  Oh,  my  dear  witch,  have  I  seen 


BARBARA   DERING.  35 

into  your  heart?  Did  you  call  me,  Barbara?  Did 
you  write  me  a  letter  next  morning  and  tear  it  up? 
You  did!  You  are  blushing.  I  can  feel  your  cheek 
grow  hot  against  mine.  You  have  loved  me  through 
it  all !  Eh,  enchantress  ?  As  I've  loved  you  in  spite 
of  my  rage?  For,  gad!  I  was  furious  with  you.  Your 
talons  drew  blood,  my  dear.  I  thought  I  hated  you 
for  a  long  time,  but  afterwards  I  couldn't  get  away 
from  you.  I  swore  I'd  never  see  you  again,  and  then  I 
took  a  steamer  from  Liverpool.  Then,  when  I  landed 
in  New  York,  I  swore  I'd  never  cross  Mason  and 
Dixon's  line,  and  the  next  day  I  found  myself  here  I 
What  a  rat-a-plan  the  dear  heart  keeps  up !  You  look 
like  a  great  snow-queen  in  this  dim  light,  with  gems 
for  eyes.  Your  eyes  stir  me,  Barbara.  What  is  it 
that  I  see  in  them  ?" 

Barbara  seemed  to  be  gazing  at  her  own  rapid 
thoughts,  whirling  as  in  circles  of  fire  against  her 
closed  lids.  She  heard  herself  saying  in  a  broken 
whisper, — 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  make  you  happy  ?  Do  you 
think  you  would  not  get  out  of  patience  with  me  ?  I 
have  changed.  I  am  more  reasonable,  but  still  I  am 
different.  You  would  have  to  be  very  patient.  Please 
let  me  go.  I  can't  think  so  close  to  you." 

Dering  gave  a  low  laugh  of  exultation  and  released 
her.  She  leaned  back,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.  What  would  be  their  future  spent  together? 
How  would  it  really  seem  to  be  the  wife  of  this  man, 
who  looked  at  her  with  Yal's  eyes,  yet  without  his 
gentleness? — who  spoke  to  her  with  Yal's  voice,  yet 
without  his  tenderness? — who  fascinated  her,  conquered 
her,  and  yet  so  often  failed  to  comprehend  her?  She 
had  suffered  so  intensely.  What  she  craved  was  rest 


36  BARBARA   DERING. 

in  love.  Would  Dering  really  give  her  this  ?  Would 
he  be  patient  ?  Would  he  never  feel  angry  and  incensed 
against  her  when  their  moods  happened  to  clash? 
She  sat  erect  suddenly,  with  a  sharp  indrawn  breath. 

"  What  is  it  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  Dering, 
quickly. 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  marry  you  and  you  were  to  get 
angry  with  me  ?  I  could  not  bear  it.  It  would  kill 
me." 

"  My  own  dear,  as  if  I  could  muster  up  a  vexed  feel 
ing  against  you !" 

"But  you  said  you  had.  You  said  you  had  been 
furious  with  me.  I'd  rather  die  than  have  that." 

"Now,  Barbara,"  said  Dering  in  a  rather  hope 
less  voice,  "are  you  really  going  to  drum  up  such 
feeble,  threadbare  objections  now  that  all  the  others 
have  been  done  away  with?  I  must  say  it's  rather 
rough." 

"  I  must  say  what  I  feel,"  she  returned,  desperately. 
"I  must  say  everything  that's  in  my  heart,  because 
this  time  it  is  final." 

"  Well,  I  should  say,"  remarked  Dering,  with  grim- 
ness. 

"  It's  final,  of  course,"  she  went  on,  getting  a  little 
excited ;  "  and  I  must  be  sure, — you  must  be  sure." 

"I'm  sure  enough.  Pray  don't  bother  about  me," 
he  replied,  laughing  again.  "  I  really  can't  have  you 
wasting  force  on  that  score." 

"  Well,  then,  I  must  be  sure  for  you.  Suppose  I  dis 
appointed  you  dreadfully.  Suppose  I  couldn't  make 
you  happy.  Suppose  you  found  that  I  didn't  love  you 
as — as  you  expect  to  be  loved."  She  paused,  and  her 
brilliant  eyes  regarded  him  anxiously.  He  nodded 
reassuringly  at  her  over  his  calmly-folded  arms. 


BARBARA  DERING.  37 

"  I'll  attend  to  those  matters  if  you  are  sure  of 
yourself.  That's  all  I  ask.  Your  love  quite  satisfies 
me,  if  that  will  be  any  help  to  you  in  coming  to  a 
decision." 

"I  want  more  than  anything  else  to  make  you 
happy,"  faltered  Barbara.  "  I  have  been  very  wretched 
over  my  cruelty  to  you." 

"  Oh,  well.  I  was  dreadfully  impatient,"  he  ad 
mitted,  easily.  "  I  ought  to  have  given  you  more  line. 
Fishing  you  is  like  fishing  a  salmon, — you  need  lots 
of  line  and  time.  I  am  being  patient  enough  now. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  are  very  good  to  me,"  she  replied,  some 
what  absent-mindedly. 

To  herself  she  was  saying  over  and  over,  "  Could  I 
give  him  up  again  ?"  It  seemed  to  her  it  would  be 
like  tearing  off  an  arm  to  put  Bering  from  her  a  second 
time.  Then  why  did  she  not  find  rest  and  peace  in 
the  thought  of  marrying  him,  now  that  her  feverish 
and  unnatural  fancies  about  Val  had  all  vanished? 
Surely  he  would  wish  her  to  secure  such  happiness 
and  comfort  as  remained  to  her  in  this  life.  It  was 
not  any  thought  of  Yal  that  disturbed  her  at  this 
vital  moment.  She  was  possessed  rather  by  a  vague 
and  half-realized  dread,  which  trickled  in  bitter  drops 
through  the  delicious,  gushing  draught  of  unexpected 
love  and  sympathy.  Why  was  there  not  more  satis 
faction  in  her  feeling  for  Bering  ?  Why  could  she  not 
give  herself  to  him  at  once,  and  with  that  sense  of  com 
pletion,  of  withholding  nothing  which  makes  the  purest 
ecstasy  of  love  ? 

"  Well,"  he  asked,  suddenly,  "  are  you  asleep,  Bar 
bara?" 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  I've  been  thinking." 
4 


38  BARBARA  D BRING. 

"  Does  it  take  such  a  tremendous  effort  to  make  up 
your  mind  ?  How  flattering !" 

She  moved  uneasily,  again  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  but  did  not  answer. 

Afterwards  she  felt  Bering's  arm  about  her,  and, 
almost  in  spite  of  herself,  her  tense  figure  relaxed  in 
his  steady  embrace.  Little  by  little  her  head  sank 
down  upon  his  shoulder.  She  was  very  tired.  There 
was  no  passion  in  her  feeling  for  him  then.  It  was 
one  half  of  gratitude,  half  of  willing  submission.  He 
desired  to  dominate,  to  conquer  her.  She  was  anxious, 
almost  eager,  to  yield.  They  sat  thus,  silently  clasping 
each  other,  until  the  carriage  drew  up  before  the  door 
of  Rosemary. 


YI. 

THE  hall-clock  was  striking  eleven  when  they  en 
tered,  so  she  asked  him  to  come  into  the  music-room 
and  have  a  cup  of  tea  before  going  away.  Miss  Fridis- 
wig  curled  up  sleepily  in  a  large  chair  before  the 
drawing-room  fire,  and  said  that  she  would  wait  for 
them  there.  In  her  drowsy  mind  she  was  feebly  con 
scious  of  thinking  some  such  words  as  these :  "I  do 
hope,  if  Barbara  is  going  to  marry  that  Mr.  Bering, 
she'll  do  it  pretty  soon.  It  ruins  my  digestion  sitting 
up  as  late  as  this.  I  don't  see  why  she  potters  so 
about  it.  It's  exactly  like  my  new  pepper-and-salt 
berege.  It's  new,  but  no  one  can  tell  it  from  the  old 
one.  I  can't  see  any  difference  myself,  except,  perhaps, 
it  cuts  a  little  under  the  arms.  He  is  so  exactly  like 
Valentine.  I  really  think  that  it's  sheer  perversity 
that  makes  her  hesitate.  I'm  sure  he  is  very  good  to 


BARBARA  DER1SG.  39 

come  back  after  she  had  treated  him  so  abominably. 
Dear !  dear !  how  sleepy  I  am !  and  I  suppose  he 
won't  think  of  leaving  before  twelve." 

The  two  others,  in  the  meantime,  had  reached  the 
music-room,  and  Dering,  in  his  evening-dress,  made  a 
rather  incongruous  figure  as  he  arranged  the  fire, 
carrying  great  hickory  logs  from  the  wood-box  under 
the  window-seat  to  the  tiled  hearth.  Barbara,  in  her 
place  behind  the  huge,  old-fashioned  silver  urn  with 
its  dented  coat  of  arms,  could  not  help  smiling  as  she 
watched  him. 

"  I  am  as  bad  as  a  boy  about  liking  a  big  blaze,"  he 
said,  coming  towards  her.  "  Oh,  my  dearest  girl,  isn't 
this  comfy  ?" 

Barbara  had  a  sudden  rush  of  spontaneousness. 
She  bent  her  face  backward  with  a  gleeful  little  laugh 
of  pleasure  and  pressed  her  soft  crown  of  hair  against 
his  breast.  Dering  was  sometimes  very  wise.  His 
response  to  this  movement  was  a  gentle  hand  laid 
lightly  against  the  curved  throat,  while,  with  the  other, 
he  tilted  the  now  boiling  water  from  the  urn  into  the 
empty  cups.  Even  the  kitten,  which  approached  with 
an  exuberant  purr,  was  kindly  greeted.  He  stooped, 
and,  lifting  it  by  the  nape  of  its  sleek  neck,  placed  it 
on  the  arm  of  the  big  chair  beside  Barbara. 

"  Why,  I  am  happy !  I  am  happy !"  Barbara  was 
telling  herself,  in  utter  astonishment.  "  How  dear  he 
is !  how  kind !  how  companionable  !" 

The  shadowy  dread  which  had  beset  her  during 
their  drive  home  had  entirely  gone.  She  felt  that  she 
could  trust  herself  to  him  with  a  feeling  of  perfect 
peace. 

"  How  prettily  you  drink !"  exclaimed  Dering,  sud 
denly.  "  Oh,  sweetheart,  is  there  anything  you  don't 


40  BARBARA  DERI  NO. 

give  a  charm  to  ?  Even  your  faults  are  bewitching. 
I  could  not  part  with  one  thing  about  you.  My  dear 
lily,  the  little  freckles  make  you  all  the  lovelier." 

Barbara  stooped  with  a  swift  movement  and  kissed 
his  hand  as  it  held  her  teacup  and  saucer. 

"  Don't !  you'll  make  me  break  the  cup,"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  Oh,  Barbara,  Barbara,  Barbara,  is  this 
heaven,  or  is  it  not  ?" 

"  I  love  you,"  she  returned,  trembling,  and  almost  in 
a  whisper.  "  I  love  you,  Jock ;  we  are  going  to  be 
happy,  after  all !  I  cannot  realize  it.  Tell  me  it  is 
true.  Tell  me  that  you  believe  it." 

"  Believe  it !"  cried  Bering.  He  set  the  things  that 
he  was  holding  upon  the  tray,  and  turning,  took  her 
into  his  arms.  "  Do  you  belong  to  me  ?"  he  asked,  in 
a  deep  breath.  "  Is  it  for  always  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  always !  I  swear  it !"  she  answered,  under 
a  sudden  conviction.  "  I  will  never  change  again.  You 
can  trust  me  absolutely  this  time." 

"  Can  I  ?"  he  asked,  holding  her  closer  and  closer 
until  it  was  painful.  But  of  this  she  gave  no  sign, 
only  nodded  in  reply  to  his  ardent  whisper.  "  You  do 
swear  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  turning  her  head  eagerly  from 
side  to  side,  as  though  looking  for  something.  "  Let 
me  go  for  a  minute,"  she  went  on.  Darting  over  to  a 
table,  she  returned  with  a  book  in  her  hand.  "  It  is  a 
Bible,"  she  told  him,  putting  it  into  his  hand  and 
keeping  her  own  upon  it.  "  I  will  swear  to  you  on 
this  that  I  will  never  change." 

"  That  you  will  marry  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  And  soon  ?" 

"Yes." 


BARBARA   BERING.  41 

"  In  a  month  ?" 

She  dropped  her  eyes  for  a  moment  and  her  strong 
lip  wavered.  Then  she  answered,  in  the  same  still 
voice, — 

«  Yes." 

He  drew  the  Bible  gently  from  under  her  fingers 
and  placed  it  on  a  chair.  Then  he  put  his  arms  about 
her,  holding  her  in  a  throbbing  silence  which  had 
something  solemn  in  it.  He  did  not  attempt  to  kiss 
her.  With  her  forehead  bent  forward  upon  his  breast 
she  stood  quiet,  waiting  for  him  to  speak  or  move. 

At  last  he  said, — 

"If  you  should  by  any  chance  fail  me  this  time, 
you'd  do  me  a  mortal  injury." 

"  What  can  I  say  ?"  she  said,  desperately,  her  face 
quivering.  Then  suddenly  a  brilliant  look  flowed  into 
her  brown  eyes. 

She  drew  a  little  away  from  him  and  began  to  pull 
eagerly  at  her  wedding-ring.  It  came  off  in  her  hand 
with  a  leap,  and  she  turned  and  thrust  it  out  to  him. 

"  There !  I  give  you  that !  Is  that  proof  enough  ?" 
Bering  gazed  steadily  into  her  eyes  with  a  powerful 
look  of  determination. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said,  finally.  She  leant  will 
ingly  upon  him  and  they  walked  over  to  the  fire 
together. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  putting  the  ring  into  her  fingers, 
"  throw  that  into  those  hottest  coals  there." 

She  did  so  without  flinching. 

"Now!"  he  cried,  and,  turning,  they  kissed  each 
other  with  mutual  ardor. 


42  BARBARA  BERING. 


VII. 

BARBARA  and  Bering  had  been  married  two  weeks. 
She  was  still  very  shy  with  him,  and  the  fact  of 
signing  her  name  "  Barbara  Dering"  still  sent  a  sharp 
pang  through  her,  as  though  she  were  driving  a  needle 
into  some  helpless  creature. 

As  regarded  her  husband,  she  had  sometimes  a  fleet 
ing  sensation  of  being  slightly  apart  from  him  in  cer 
tain  mental  questions,  while  Dering  had  discovered 
that  a  very  impassioned  woman  may  also  be  supremely 
spiritual.  Although  neither  admitted  it,  even  to  them 
selves,  they  were  beginning  to  jar  a  little  on  each 
other  in  those  trivial  nothings  which  make  the  all  of 
married  life. 

Bering's  manner  often  caused  Barbara  to  wince, 
while  some  of  her  ideas  and  objections  struck  him  as 
weak  and  sentimental.  Still,  this  slight  coolness  that 
blew  across  their  intense  feeling,  from  time  to  time, 
was  no  more  serious  in  its  effects  than  the  chill  of  an 
early  autumn  day,  which  is  only  unpleasant  as  long 
as  one  remains  in  the  shadows.  In  moods  of  sunshine 
the  two  were  as  near  and  dear  to  each  other  as  before 
their  marriage. 

One  day  after  their  return  to  Eosemary,  Dering, 
coming  in  from  a  long  ride,  found  Barbara  at  the 
library  window  with  a  book  in  her  hands.  He  slipped 
behind  her  and  began  to  read  over  her  shoulder.  It 
was  an  unmeasured  delight  to  feel  her  heart  quicken 
its  beats  under  his  touch  and  to  see  the  bright  color 
leap  along  her  throat. 


BARBARA   DERINQ.  43 

"  What  are  you  reading  ?"  he  said  at  last,  referring 
to  the  Poems  of  Rossetti  which  she  held. 

"  This  one,  '  Her  Love,' "  she  answered.  "  It  is  so  ex 
quisite.  Men  so  seldom  really  understand  women.  I 
love  to  find  a  poem  like  this,  written  by  a  man." 

"  Let's  see,"  said  Dering.  "  I  don't  know  his  poems 
at  all."  So  they  read  together  the  sonnet  in  question. 
It  was  this : 

"HER   LOVE. 

She  loves  him  ;  for  her  infinite  soul  is  Love, 

And  he  her  load-star.     Passion  in  her  is 

A  glass  facing  his  fire,  where  the  bright  bliss 

Is  mirrored  and  the  heat  returned.     Yet  move 

That  glass,  a  stranger's  amorous  flame  to  prove, 

And  it  shall  turn,  by  instant  contraries, 

Ice  to  the  moon  ;  while  her  pure  fire  to  his 

For  whom  it  burns  clings  close  i'  the  heart's  alcove. 

Lo  !  they  are  one.     With  wifely  breast  to  breast, 

And  circling  arms,  she  welcomes  all  command 

Of  love, — her  soul  to  answering  ardors  fanned. 

Yet,  as  morn  springs  or  twilight  sinks  to  rest, 

Ah  I  who  shall  say  she  deems  not  loveliest 

The  hour  of  sisterly  sweet  hand  in  hand  ?" 

Her  back  was  to  him,  so  that  she  did  not  see  the 
smile  of  frank  amusement  which  disclosed  his  bright 
teeth,  but  something  in  his  tone  stung  her  as  he  said, 
laughing, — 

"  By  gad !  he  did  make  her  out  rather  a  molly-coddle 
in  the  end !  I  don't  think  we  ever  tried  the — what  is 
it?  Let  me  see  again.  Oh,  yes,  'the  sisterly  sweet 
hand  in  hand.'  Did  we  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  you  exactly  comprehend  what  Rossetti 
means,"  she  answered,  a  little  coldly.  "He  doesn't 
mean  sawny  sentimentalism  like  that  of  two  country 
bumpkins  at  a  fair.  He  is  trying  to  express  that 


44  BARBARA   DERING. 

deep  undertone  of  mutual  understanding  and  rest  and 
bliss  that  perfect  love  brings.  I  suppose  it  was  rather 
daring  to  try  to  describe  it.  Any  one  knows  what  you 
mean  when  you  try  to  express  passionate  love,  but 
even  when  poets  attempt  to  put  into  words  that  spirit 
ual  essence  of  love  which  is  not  mere  affection,  or 
companionship,  or — or  anything  else  that  is  generally 
known,  it  is  like  trying  to  describe  a  subtle  harmony 
to  some  one  who  has  never  heard  it." 

"  What  eloquence !"  said  Dering,  rather  nettled  in 
his  turn.  "Do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  you'd 
rather  hold  my  hand  than  have  me  kiss  you?" 

"  I  think  one  has  different  moods,"  she  returned, 
hesitatingly. 

"But,  good  Lord!  that  Eossetti  fellow  says  the 
woman  in  his  sonnet  prefers  it ;  or  if  he  doesn't  say 
it,  he  hints  it.  Let's  see  it  again." 

"  No,  don't,"  said  Barbara,  rather  unkindly.  "  Let's 
put  it  back  in  the  bookcase  and  forget  that  it  was 
ever  written.  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  ride  ?" 

Dering  looked  at  her  with  obstinate  lips. 

"  Do  you  really  fancy,  my  dear  girl,  that  I'm  going 
to  be  brushed  aside  like  that  ?  I  want  you  to  be  so 
very  kind  as  to  come  over  here  to  the  sofa  and  explain 
just  what  you  understand  by  that  rather  astonishing 
statement." 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear!"  sighed  Barbara,  "I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  exactly  what  it  does  mean  now.  I'm  completely 
mixed  up." 

"Well,  come  over  here  and  I'll  help  you  unravel  a 
thought  or  two.  Come  /"  rather  peremptorily,  as  she 
hesitated. 

"  I  don't  like  it  at  all,  Jock,  when  you  speak  to  me  in 
that  tone,"  she  said,  flushing.  "  I  am  perfectly  willing 


BARBARA  DERING.  45 

to  do  what  you  ask,  but  I  am  certainly  not  going  to 
run  at  your  bidding  like  a  good  little  girl." 

"  Why,  positively,  you're  cross  about  it,  Barbara ! 
I  didn't  think  you'd  make  such  a  fuss  over  a  little 
thing." 

"  It's  not  I,"  she  said,  her  eyes  beginning  to  flash. 
"  I'm  sure  I  would  have  let  it  drop  at  first.  It  was  you 
who  would  discuss.  Besides,  it  isn't  a  little  thing  either. 
It's  a  vital  question,  and  one  that  I  find  we  disagree 
upon." 

"  By  Jove  !  we  do  disagree,  if  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  prefer  feeling  a  sort  of  mawkish  friendship  for  me 
to  what  I  thought  was  a  fiery  love.  After  all,  I  sup 
pose  women  are  all  more  or  less  alike." 

"  Who  am  I  more  or  less  alike  ?"  asked  Barbara,  with 
tartness.  "  Whom  are  you  classing  me  with  ?" 

"I  don't  like  your  tone  anymore  than  you  liked 
mine  just  now,"  he  retorted,  curtly,  and  rising,  moved 
over  to  the  window  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
his  lips  pursed  as  though  to  whistle. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Barbara,  feeling  a  wild 
and  undignified  desire  to  cry.  She  took  up  a  book 
which  lay  on  the  table  and  made  an  elaborate  pretence 
of  reading.  Then,  all  at  once,  something  stirred  in  her 
heart.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  sharp  and  hasty,  and 
that,  although  he  had  hurt  her  more  than  he  knew 
by  laughing  at  words  which  seemed  to  her  to  express 
her  inmost  soul,  she  had  been  wrong  to  visit  such  an 
unintentional  thing  upon  him.  If  some  of  their  opinions 
already  made  a  slight  barrier  between  them,  was  she 
not  very  wrong  and  unwise  to  risk  increasing  it  by 
any  show  of  resentment  ?  She  threw  down  the  book, 
and  rushing  over  to  his  side,  with  one  of  her  eager 
movements  slipped  her  arms  about  his  throat  and  drew 


46  BARBARA  DERING. 

down  his  head  to  hers.  Bering's  neck  bent  a  little 
stiffly  under  her  strong  clasp. 

"  My  love !  I  am  so  sorry !"  she  whispered.  "  I  was 
very,  very,  abominably,  hideously  cross,  and  you  can 
punish  me  in  any  way  that  you  like."  Still  Bering's 
eyes  remained  distinctly  cold. 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  your  having  been  cross,"  he  said, 
"  if  I  could  get  at  my  offence.  I  can't  make  out  what 
I  said  to  put  you  in  such  a  rage." 

"  You  couldn't  call  it  a  rage,  Jock,"  Barbara  returned, 
also  cold  again.  "  It  isn't  very  just  of  you  to  say  that 
I  was  in  a  rage." 

"  Oh,  well,  hang  it  all !"  he  exclaimed,  impatiently, 
"  for  goodness'  sake  don't  let  us  go  on  splitting  hairs  in 
this  childish  fashion !  Call  it  righteous  wrath,  or  just 
indignation,  or  whatever  you  will.  I  never  saw  you 
disagreeable  like  that  before,  and  it  makes  a  mighty  big 
change  in  you,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Barbara,  turning  away  with  a  pale  face. 

"You've  shown  yourself  ill-natured  and  unkind," 
Bering  fumed  on.  "  And  if  I  were  inclined  to  be  rude 
I  might  add  silly.  Where  are  you  going  ?"  he  broke 
off.  "  I'll  be  very  obliged  if  you'll  pay  me  the  ordinary 
respect  of  remaining  until  I've  finished  speaking." 

"  I'd  rather  not,"  answered  Barbara,  quietly.  "  I  think 
we  should  both  be  sorry  afterwards  if  I  were  to  stay." 

;'  Well,  look  here,"  said  Bering,  frowning,  "  I  demand 
it  of  you,  no  matter  what  you  think.  I'm  not  used 
to  having  women  treat  me  as  mammas  treat  naughty 
school-boys." 

"  I'm  not  used  to.  being  spoken  to  in  this  way  either," 
said  Barbara.  Her  eyes  had  grown  black  and  her 
face  looked  dangerous  with  its  white,  compressed  lips 
and  dilated  nostrils.  "  What  cause  did  I  ever  give  you 


BARBARA   DERING.  47 

to  think  me  a  meek  Griselda  who  could  be  ordered 
about  at  will  ?" 

"  Come  back !"  thundered  Dering. 

Barbara  smiled  and  went  out,  closing  the  door  softly. 


Till. 

BARBARA,  having  locked  her  door,  stood  in  the  centre 
of  her  bedroom  and  looked  about  her  with  a  dazed  air. 
Then,  as  the  consciousness  of  what  had  passed  be 
tween  herself  and  Dering  grew  upon  her,  she  threw 
herself  down  upon  the  floor  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  folded  arms.  At  first  no  tears  would  come,  but 
presently  she  began  to  feel  herself  shaken  by  short 
sobs,  which  she  controlled  in  a  moment  or  two  by  a 
great  effort. 

"  I  won't !  I  won't !"  she  kept  saying,  in  a  soft  voice. 
"  He  shall  not  make  me  cry  !  I  will  not  let  him  make 
me  cry !"  Then  she  sat  up  and  pushed  back  her  heavy 
hair.  "  How  dreadful !"  she  murmured.  "  I  almost 
dislike  him  !  It  frightens  me  !" 

With  a  sudden,  sickening  swoop,  the  thought  of  Yal- 
entine's  gentleness  came  down  upon  her.  She  hid  her 
face  again  and  uttered  some  desperate  words  of  prayer. 
She  felt  sure  that  God  would  not  let  this  awful  torture 
remain.  And  presently,  as  she  knelt  waiting,  the  vivid 
ness  of  the  present  came  to  her  relief. 

"  He  is  my  husband !  I  do  love  him  !"  she  whispered, 
with  a  great  gush  of  tears.  "  But  how  harsh  he  was ! 
How  cruel !  I  can't  realize  that  he  really  spoke  to  me 
like  that.  Oh,  what  a  bitter  world  !" 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  gazing  sadly  out 


48  BARBARA  D BRING. 

at  the  dark  box-bushes,  against  which  showed  a  yellow 
lace-work  of  autumn  leaves.  The  sun  had  nearly  sunk 
behind  the  violet-gray  of  the  far  hills.  Slanting  beams 
struck  across  the  withering  grass  on  the  wide  lawn  and 
touched  the  rose-gray  seed-pods  on  a  magnolia-tree  near 
the  window,  making  the  half-disclosed  scarlet  beans 
shine  like  jewels.  A  rabbit  came  jumping  suddenly 
towards  her,  then  swerved  to  one  side  and  disappeared 
among  the  shrubbery.  Overhead,  two  crows  flew 
slowly,  with  social  cawings,  their  bodies  showing  a 
rusty  black  in  the  gold  light. 

There  was  a  sadness  through  it  all,  and  Barbara 
pressed  her  hands  together  with  a  long  catching  breath. 

"  What  a  poor,  poor  blind  fool  I  was  to  think  that 
happiness  could  come  twice  in  one  life !  I  was  wrong 
just  now;  but  he  made  me  so  indignant.  It  has 
always  made  me  wicked  to  be  taunted  and  ordered 
about.  I  would  have  done  anything  he  wished  if  he  had 
only  been  gentle.  Oh,  me  !  how  hard  it  all  is  !  I  know 
I  was  very,  very  wrong,  but  I  did  say  I  was  sorry,  and 
he  met  me  with  such  coldness.  It  makes  my  cheeks 
burn  to  think  of  it.  How  terrible  the  intimacy  of 
marriage  is  unless  it  goes  with  absolute  tenderness, 
and,  oh,  how  he  always  laughs  at  that  word  !  Oh,  he 
doesn't  understand !  He  doesn't  understand  I"  she 
ended,  beginning  to  cry  heart-brokenly  and  sinking 
on  the  floor  by  the  window. 

"  And  I  am  afraid  he  will  never  let  me  teach  him, — 
that  he  doesn't  care  to  learn  !  There  seems  to  be  only 
one  side  to  his  love  for  me.  If  one  could  see  the  mean 
ing  in  it  all  sometimes !  There  is  one  thing  at  least.  I 
am  learning  that  I  need  a  great,  great  deal  of  disci 
pline.  I  have  such  a  craving  for  happiness.  It  is 
wrong,  I  think.  I  care  much  more  for  other  people 


BARBARA   DERING.  49 

than  I  used  to  do ;  but  how  obstinate  I  am !  When  I 
think  of  how  he  looked  at  me  just  now,  I  feel  so  de 
fiant,  so  insolent !  I  feel  as  though  I  should  only  taunt 
him  and  aggravate  him  if  he  came  to  ask  my  pardon. 
I " 

A  half-hesitating  knock  at  the  door  made  her  start. 

"  It's  Jock,  Barbara,"  said  a  low  voice  from  without. 

The  blood  rushed  into  her  face,  and  she  sat  where  she 
was,  quite  silent,  her  hands  gripped  together,  her  lips 
just  curved  with  a  revengeful  little  smile.  At  the 
moment  she  felt  hard  and  cruel  and  as  though  he  were, 
in  some  sort,  her  enemy. 

"  Barbara,"  said  Dering  again.     Still  she  was  silent. 

After  a  moment  or  two  he  turned  away,  and  she 
heard  his  footsteps  going  from  her  along  the  uncar- 
peted  floor  of  the  hall. 

"  He  treated  me  insolently,"  she  said,  with  her  teeth 
fast  shut.  "  No  man  shall  speak  to  me  like  that."  And 
she  remained  in  the  gathering  twilight,  her  heart  grow 
ing  more  and  more  desolate  and  bitter,  her  body  be 
ginning  to  shiver  as  the  fire  died  out  on  the  hearth. 

All  at  once  some  one  flung  up  one  of  the  windows 
with  a  bang,  and  she  looked  up  to  see  Dering  leap  into 
the  room  from  the  top  of  the  portico  outside. 

She  got  to  her  feet  and  stood  facing  him  with  defiant 
eyes,  but  he  came  and  crushed  her  in  his  arms  as 
though  she  had  been  a  wilful  child,  and  began  a 
bewildered  outpour  of  regret,  apology,  repentance,, 
reproach,  love. 

"You  cruel,  cruel,  beautiful,  wicked,  devilish  dar 
ling  !"  he  ended  finally,  and  Barbara  began  to  laugh 
in  spite  of  herself.  "  If  you  haven't  the  knack  of 
torturing  a  man  out  of  his  wits  down  to  a  fine  point ! 
First  you  go  and  tell  me  that  you  agree  with  a  biood- 
c  d  5 


50  BARBARA   DERING. 

less  numskull  who  says  that  holding  hands  forms  the 
sum  of  human  bliss !  Then  you  follow  it  up  by  telling 
me  you  don't  agree  with  me  on  a  vital  question  !  Then 
you  treat  me  with  the  coolest  insolence,  and  walk  off 
in  the  middle  of  what  I  am  saying  to  you,  shutting 
the  door  in  my  face !  Aren't  you  ashamed,  honestly  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  she  said,  her  face  roguish  in  one  of  the 
flashing  changes  which  gave  her  her  potent  charm. 
"  I  told  you  so ;  but  you  were  too  odious !" 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  was,"  he  admitted.  "  I  haven't  a 
very  nice  temper." 

"  Indeed  you  haven't !  No  one  ever  spoke  to  me  so 
in  all  my  life.  Do  you  know  there  was  one  minute 
when  I  almost  hated  you  !" 

"  I  felt  something  rather  like  it  for  you,"  he  returned, 
laughing. 

"But  you  did  begin  it,  Jock!  I'm  sure  you'll  be 
just  about  that.  I  didn't  want  to  discuss  it  from  the 
first.  Now,  did  I  ?" 

"That's  just  what  provoked  me.  You've  such  a 
grandiose  way  of  waving  aside  any  one  who  does  not 
agree  with  you  exactly." 

"  Oh,  Jock !  what  a  horrid  picture  you  make  of  me !" 

"Well,"  said  Bering,  dragging  at  his  moustache 
and  assuming  a  grave,  rather  judicial  air,  "  you  have 
some  faults  that  you're  not  at  all  aware  of.  That's 
one  of  'em." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  waited  until  now  to  tell  me 
about  it,"  she  answered,  stiffly,  her  head,  with  its 
ruffled,  flame-like  hair,  very  erect.  "  I  must  confess  I 
like  people  to  speak  out  frankly  at  the  time ;  not  go 
on  for  months  laying  things  up  as  it  were." 

"  I'm  speaking  frankly  now,  and  you  don't  seem  to 
like  it  much." 


BARBARA   DERING.  51 

"That's  not  the  question  at  all.  Why  didn't  you 
speak  at  first  ?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  my  dear  girl,  I  had  such  an  awfully 
hard  time  getting  you  to  marry  me  at  all  that  I  cer 
tainly  wasn't  going  to  risk  my  chances  by  setting  up 
as  a  mentor." 

"Can  you  think  of  anything  else  that  displeases 
you  about  me  just  now  ?"  asked  Barbara,  quietly,  but 
with  a  feeling  of  angry  protestation  swelling  in  her 
heart. 

In  married  life  the  first  occasion  of  fault-finding  is 
an  event  from  which  conjugal  dates  are  evolved. 
Barbara  remembered  that  this  was  the  twenty-second 
of  October,  and  was,  moreover,  sure  that  she  would 
never  forget  it. 

"  Can  you  ?"  she  repeated,  as  Dering  stood  silent, 
still  pulling  at  his  moustache. 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  he  answered  at  last,  rather  abruptly. 
"But  I'm  not  such  an  ass  as  to  mention  it.  I've 
fussed  you  up  enough  for  one  day." 

"  I'm  not  in  the  least  fussed  up,  as  you  call  it,"  said 
Barbara,  icily ;  "  and  I  would  much  rather  have  all  the 
charges  against  me  mentioned  at  once." 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Dering,  exasperated,  "who  the 
mischief  spoke  of  *  charges  against  you'  ?  Do  you 
really  fancy  yourself  faultless  ?  By  Jove !  you  have 
been  shamefully  spoiled  and  flattered  !  It's  a  wonder 
you  are  as  simple  and  natural  as  you  are." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Barbara. 

He  wheeled  about  suddenly.  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is," 
he  remarked,  energetically,  "we're  both  acting  like 
idiots  to  stay  here  squabbling  in  this  barn  of  a  room. 
I'm  catching  cold  this  minute.  I  can  always  tell. 
What  on  earth  possessed  you  to  let  the  fire  go  out  ?" 


52  BARBARA  DERING. 

"  There's  the  bell,"  said  Barbara.  "  If  you  ring  twice, 
Martha  Ellen  will  come  and  make  a  fire." 

" Martha  Ellen!"  jerked  Dering,  with  an  angry 
laugh.  "  Why  on  earth  do  most  negro  girls  have  these 
double-barrelled  names?  Why  don't  you  call  her 
Martha  or  Ellen  ?" 

"  You  can,  if  you  choose,"  said  Barbara,  dryly.  "  She 
will  answer  to  almost  anything.  My  name  for  her  is 
Rameses.  Perhaps  you  would  like  that  better." 

"  Jove !"  exclaimed  Dering,  with  another  laugh, 
"you  can  make  yourself  unpleasant.  I'm  sorry  I 
should  have  had  to  mention  one  of  your  failings  to 
you,  but,  as  your  husband,  I  don't  choose  to  be  made 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  by  the  absurd 
childishness  you  sometimes  indulge  in." 

Barbara  rose,  and,  going  to  the  dressing-table,  lifted 
one  of  the  big  ivory  brushes  and  began  to  smooth  her 
disarranged  hair  with  hands  that  trembled.  Then  she 
looked  at  him  in  the  glass  until  their  eyes  met,  when 
she  said,  in  a  cold,  quiet  voice, — 

"  I  shall  not  forget  what  you  have  said  to  me." 

"  No ;  it's  my  wish  that  you  should  not,"  he  returned, 
staring  back  at  her  with  hard  eyes,  which  she  wondered 
how  she  could  ever  have  thought  handsome. 

"It's  seven  o'clock,"  she  then  said,  glancing  down 
at  the  little  Louis  Quinze  watch  of  old  red  enamel 
which  lay  on  the  pin-cushion.  "  If  you'll  be  so  kind 
as  to  go,  I  should  like  to  dress  for  dinner." 

"All  right,"  he  said,  rising  at  once.  "Only  I  hope 
you  won't  dawdle  as  much  as  usual.  The  soup  is  always 
cold,  and  this  country  cooking  is  beastly  at  the  best." 

"I  shall  be  punctual,"  said  Barbara,  and  he  closed 
the  door  rather  noisily  and  went  off,  whistling  "  Wait 
till  the  Clouds  roll  by,  Jenny,"  with  elaborate  flourishes. 


BARBARA   BERING.  53 


IX. 

BARBARA,  left  to  herself,  turned  around,  with  hands 
clinched  at  her  sides  and  furious  eyes  fastened  on  the 
shut  door. 

"  I  hate  him !  I  hate  him !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  low 
but  of  condensed  energy.  "  I  hate  you !"  she  repeated, 
as  though  addressing  some  one  before  her.  Then  she 
gazed  about  her,  as  though  in  search  of  some  relief. 
A  little  square  yellow  stain  on  one  of  the  walls  near 
the  fireplace  caught  her  attention.  It  was  evidently 
the  mark  made  by  a  picture  which  had  hung  there  a 
long  time.  She  ran  over  and  laid  her  cheek  against  it. 
"  Oh,  Yal !"  she  said,  with  a  deep  sob.  Then  turning 
quickly  away,  took  her  forehead  between  both  palms 
and  pressed  it  hard,  whispering  to  herself,  "No,  I 
must  not  do  that.  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  begin  that." 

She  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  presently,  feeling  all 
of  a  sudden  weak  and  cold.  In  the  confused  whirl  of 
emotions  which  beset  her  she  could  not  single  out  that 
which  was  strongest.  Her  mind  seemed  to  be  a  tan 
gled  and  fiery  web  of  new  fierce  thoughts  which 
frightened  her.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the  clutch  of 
what  she  considered  despair  with  that  sense  of  the 
finalness  of  things  which  so  often  misleads  the  newly 
married.  It  was  impossible  that  she  could  ever  again 
feel  love  for  a  being  whom  she  had  once  allowed  her 
self  to  hate.  It  was  impossible  that  one  who  really 
loved  her  should  speak  to  her  as  Dering  had  spoken 
this  afternoon.  The  old  familiar  rustling  in  the  boughs 
of  an  elm  near  her  window  struck  her  as  derisive. 
She  seemed  to  be  some  one  else,  and  the  objects  in  the 
room  had  to  her  an  air  of  disapproval.  Then,  in  her 

6* 


54  BARBARA  BERING. 

bewildered  brain,  she  tried  to  go  back  over  what  they 
had  said  to  each  other  and  to  see  where  she  had  been 
wrong,  but  before  she  could  remember  anything  con 
secutively,  Bering's  last  words  struck  her  memory's 
ear  like  a  blow  and  set  every  nerve  tingling  with 
angry  denial. 

"He  does  not  chose  that  I — I  shall  make  him 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  world !  Oh,  what  words, 
what  words  to  speak  to  a  woman !  And  we  have  only 
been  married  two  weeks !" 

That  vague,  dark  terror  that  she  remembered  came 
down  upon  her.  "  My  God,  what  is  our  life  going  to 
be  ?"  she  said  aloud  in  a  childlike  tone  of  great  fear. 
She  felt  her  throat  beginning  to  ache  and  the  pressure 
of  coming  tears  behind  her  eyes,  then  started  up  and 
began  to  unhook  her  morning  gown  and  to  look 
nervously  into  different  drawers  and  closets  for  the 
dress  that  she  wanted.  She  would  not  ring  for  Barne 
ses.  She  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  even  the  most 
loving  eyes  watching  her  through  this  grim  hour.  As 
she  drew  the  last  fold  into  place  the  gong  sounded  for 
dinner,  and  she  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  coming 
back,  fell  upon  her  knees  for  a  moment. 

"  Don't,  don't  make  it  too  hard !  I  will  try  to  bear 
it,"  was  somehow  all  that  she  could  find  to  say,  and  in 
reply  she  seemed  to  hear  these  stern  words  repeated 
in  a  voice  of  cold  severity :  "  I  have  somewhat  against 
thee  because  thou  hast  left  thy  first  love." 

She  almost  ran  from  the  room,  driven  by  a  dread 
sense  of  friendlessness  and  isolation.  In  some  strange 
way  the  very  silence  seemed  urging  upon  her  the 
truth  of  Bering's  criticisms. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  so, — perhaps  I  am  all  that  he  says," 
she  thought,  pausing  on  her  way  down-stairs  to  grasp 


BARBARA   DERI  NO.  55 

the  railing  of  the  banisters  with  a  terror-stricken 
look,  as  though  she  had  met  some  spectre  coming  up. 
Then  she  heard  Miss  Fridiswig's  little  feet  pattering 
through  the  hall,  and  ran  down  to  join  her.  Dering 
was  standing  before  the  dining-room  fire  in  evening 
dress  as  they  entered.  His  face  had  a  frozen,  stolid 
look,  as  though  carved  in  metal.  Looking  at  Barbara, 
he  saw  only  that  she  was  very  pale  and  that  her  lips 
and  eyebrows  were  haughty.  His  thoughts  of  her 
had  not  been  gentle.  He  was  a  man  of  quick,  impe 
rious  temper,  not  accustomed  either  to  opposition  or  to 
the  ways  of  women.  Pride  and  resolution  were  prob 
ably  his  strongest  characteristics,  and  Barbara  had 
wounded  the  first  and  roused  the  second.  He  liked  to 
impress  his  individuality  upon  others,  and  he  was 
determined  that  Barbara  should  conform  to  his  ideas 
in  a  general  sense,  if  not  in  detail. 

Their  discussion  over  Eossetti's  sonnet  had  left  him 
smarting  in  two  ways.  First,  her  tacit  criticism  upon 
his  comprehension  of  love  had  angered  his  vanity,  and, 
secondly,  the  mere  idea  that  her  keen  passion  for  him 
was  waning  into  a  poetic  sentimentality  gripped  him 
with  that  spasmodic  kind  of  pain  which  brings  with  it 
a  savage  irritation.  He  felt  that  she  loved  him  when 
it  harmonized  with  her  mood,  and  that  when  he  opposed 
her  she  could  instantly  call  up  the  icy  irony  of  manner 
which  had  so  galled  him  during  the  past  interview. 

At  the  same  time,  with  a  strange,  vehement  undercur 
rent  of  feeling  which  swept  his  thoughts  in  an  opposite 
direction,  he  was  conscious  that  her  exquisite  feminine- 
ness  and  beauty  roused  in  him  an  intense  adoration,  and 
that  in  hurting  her  he  was  forcing  upon  himself  throes 
of  bitter  pain.  In  addition  to  all  this  he  was  haunted 
by  the  memory  of  her  wild  fluctuations,  uncertain 


56  BARBARA   DERINO. 

humors,  frankly  cruel  egoism,  throughout  their  first 
engagement.  He  felt  that  he  was  dealing  with  a 
powerful  and  incalculable  force,  and  that  he  had  no 
certainty  as  to  whether  her  love  for  him  would  remain 
steadfast  under  trying  circumstances.  This  doubt, 
however,  was  soothed  by  his  firm  belief  in  his  own 
mastery  of  the  situation  and  strength  to  compel  events 
into  the  order  which  he  wished  them  to  assume.  Upon 
one  thing  he  was  absolutely  determined :  Barbara 
should  acknowledge  that  in  him  she  had  found  her 
conqueror.  In  his  secret  mind  he  considered  that  his 
cousin  Yalentine  Pomfret  had  been  a  rather  weak  and 
unavailing  fellow,  and  he  was  given  to  saying  that  he 
detested  chaps  who  went  about  as  though  they  had 
springs  in  their  backs  and  moved  by  electric  shocks ; 
this  being  Bering's  method  of  expressing  his  dislike 
for  the  usual  drawing-room  manner  of  this  century. 

He  watched  Barbara  furtively  during  dinner.  Every 
motion  of  her  large,  fair  hands,  every  turn  of  her  sup 
ple  throat  under  its  clear  and  elastic  skin,  every  flicker 
of  her  straight  brows  and  dark-red  lips,  thrilled  him 
with  that  sense  of  supreme  personality  which  the  being 
we  love  holds  for  us  even  in  lapses  of  indignation.  To 
him  she  appeared  self-satisfied,  indifferent,  cool,  while 
in  reality  her  heart  dragged  heavily  like  a  sick  thing 
in  her  breast,  and  the  food  which  she  was  eating  seemed 
to  have  no  taste. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  she  was  saying  to  herself.  "  I  have 
married  him  and  I  dislike  him.  It  was  an  illusion,  a 
fascination.  He  is  cruel  and  cold-hearted.  Every  fibre 
of  me  loathes  him  to-night." 

She  went  up-stairs  very  early,  threw  herself  into  the 
wide  bed,  and  slept  heavily  like  a  child  after  a  long  fit 
of  sobbing. 


BARBARA   DERING.  57 


X. 

WHEN  Barbara  woke  the  next  morning  she  was 
astonished  to  find  that  her  mood  had  changed  during 
the  night,  and  that  her  anger  against  Dering  had  died 
down  into  a  feeling  of  isolated  hopelessness  and  grief. 
She  heard  him  moving  about  in  his  dressing-room,  and 
the  snapping  of  a  newly-kindled  fire  told  her  that  he 
had  just  got  up.  She  felt  that  she  was  very  weak, 
because  of  a  strong  yearning  which  tempted  her  to  put 
her  lips  against  the  crack  of  the  door  which  separated 
their  rooms  and  bid  him  good-morning. 

"  I  seem  to  have  no  strength  of  purpose,"  she  told 
herself,  tossing  about  impatiently,  while  Rarneses  flung 
open  the  Venetian  blinds,  letting  in  a  twinkling  sluice 
of  October  sunlight,  and  filled  her  tub  with  water, 
which  gave  forth  an  icy  crackle  as  it  gushed  into  the 
hollow  of  zinc.  While  she  waited  for  these  preparations 
to  be  made  she  read  in  one  of  those  little  books  of 
which  women  are  so  fond.  It  was  called  "  Daily 
Strength  for  Daily  Needs,"  and  the  title  had  been  a 
source  of  great  amusement  to  Dering,  who  found  it 
unique.  She  turned  to  the  page  dated  October  the 
twenty-third.  There  was  a  verse  from  the  Psalms,  a 
bit  of  Lucy  Larcom's  poetry,  and  two  selections,  one 
from  George  Eliot  and  one  from  Frederick  Robertson. 
The  extract  from  £>  r'omola"  was  as  follows : 

"  You  are  seeking  -four  own  will,  my  daughter.  You 
are  seeking  some  good  other  tJuin  the  law  you  are  bound  to 
obey.  But  how  will  you  find  good  ?  It  is  not  a  thing  of 
choice.  It  is  a  river  that  flows  from  the  foot  of  the  In 
visible  Throne,  and  flows  by  the  path  of  obedience.  I  say 


58  BARBARA  DERING. 

again,  man  cannot  choose  his  duties.  You  may  choose  to 
forsake  your  duties,  and  choose  not  to  have  the  sorrow  they 
bring.  But  you  will  go  forth,  and  what  will  you  find,  my 
daughter  f  Sorrow  without  duty,  bitter  herbs  and  no  bread 
with  them." 

Barbara  lay  quite  still  after  reading  this,  her  hand 
thrust  deep  into  the  loosened  masses  of  her  hair,  her  eyes 
upon  the  golden  nutter  of  the  leaves  against  the  dark- 
blue  atmosphere,  shrouding  the  great  evergreens  beyond. 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  duty,"  she  said  finally,  in  a  firm 
voice.  "How  hard  it  seems  to  be  for  me  to  learn 
things !  I  don't  want  to  be  wrong  and  wicked,  and 
yet,  somehow,  I  am  always  stumbling  into  such  burn 
ing  mistakes !" 

She  turned  absently  to  the  next  page,  and  saw  this 
extract  from  Mrs.  Stowe's  writings  : 

"  Talk  of  hair-cloth  shirts  and  scour gings  and  sleeping 
on  ashes  as  means  of  saintship !  There  is  no  need  of 
them  in  our  country.  Let  a  woman  once  look  at  her 
domestic  trials  as  her  hair-cloth,  her  ashes,  her  scourges, 
accept  them,  rejoice  in  them,  smile  and  be  quiet,  silent, 
patient,  loving  under  them,  and  the  convent  can  teach  her 
no  more.  She  is  a  victorious  saint" 

Barbara  dashed  from  the  bed  with  a  gay  laugh. 
"  Eamie !"  she  exclaimed,  seizing  the  smiling  little 
negress  by  both  arms, — "  Eamie,  dear,  I'm  going  to  be 
a  victorious  saint !" 

"  Well,  you  cert'n'y  is  pretty,  I  don'  keer  what  else 
you  is,"  answered  Martha  Ellen,  drawing  her  delicately- 
formed,  rough  little  hand,  with  a  loving  gesture,  over 
her  mistress's  brilliant  hair. 

"  Dear  Eamie  I  I'm  going  to  be  '  pretty  is  as  pretty 
does.'  That's  much  better.  Does  Tobit  ever  make 
you  feel  like  being  '  ugly  is  as  ugly  does,'  Eamie  ?" 


BARBARA   D BRING.  59 

"Tobit's  mighty  aggravatin'  sometimes,  Miss  Barb'ra. 
I  kin  sca'cely  hole  my  han's." 

"  How  is  he  aggravating  ?     Is  he  cross  to  you  ?" 

"No,  that's  jes'  hit.  I  cyarri  make  him  cross,  I 
done  keer  what  I  do.  He's  jes'  ez  kine  en  good !  They 
nuver  wuz  sech  a  man  'bout  bein'  good  in  sickness." 

"  Well,  that  is  nice,  Ramie!  I'm  going  to  give  him 
a  watch  at  Christmas."  Martha  Ellen  sank  down  on 
the  hearth-rug  under  the  weight  of  her  emotion. 

"  Miss  Barb'ra,  ef  you  give  Tobit  a  watch,  Tobit  '11 
bust !" 

"  Are  you  sure  you  wouldn't  like  him  to  '  bust,'  Ka 
mie  ?"  asked  Barbara,  wickedly.  Eameses  shook  her 
head  in  solemn  denial. 

"  I  is  ben  think  all  sorts  uv  things,  Miss  Barb'ra, 
but  you  does  git  so  mixed  up.  An'  hit  cert'n'y  does 
seem  as  how  dee  Lord  does  favor  de  men-folks.  Some 
times,  when  Tobit  have  stay  out  so  late  at  night,  I  is 
ben  sit  down  en  plead  wid  dee  Lord  tuh  let  hit  thunder 
an'  lighten',  'cause  Tobit's  awful  'fraid  uv  thunder,  an' 
I  'clare  tuh  gracious,  Miss  Barb'ra,  sometimes  he  ain't 
ben  put  he  foot  in  dee  house  two  seckints  'fore  hit  pour 
down  wid  rain  like  buckets  wuz  bein'  upsetted.  But 
hit  don'  nuver  begin  till  he  safe  in-doors." 

"  What  a  shame !"  exclaimed  Barbara,  with  the 
ready  sympathy  which  made  her  servants  give  her  such 
unstinted  adoration.  They  had  all  been  happy  slaves 
and  born  on  the  estate,  or  else  the  children  of  such 
slaves,  and  they  treated  their  young  mistress  more  like 
a  beloved  child  or  a  superior  sister  than  a  person  apart 
from  them,  holding  a  distant  authority. 

"  Husban's  is  something  that's  shore  !"  sighed  Barneses, 
drawing  a  long  blue  silk  stocking  over  her  arm  and 
turning  the  foot  that  Barbara  might  slip  it  on  more 


60  BARBARA   DERING. 

easily.  "  You  cert'n'y  wuz  brave  tub  try  hit  two  times, 
Miss  Barb'ra." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  was,  Eamie ;  but  then  you  never 
know  what  you'll  do  until  you  do  it.  I  suppose  you 
think  if  Tobit  was  to — to  disappear  you'd  never  marry 
again  ?" 

"  No,  honey-chile,"  said  Barneses,  solemnly.  "  Mar 
tha  Ellen  don'  think  nothin'  'bout  that.  She  know,  ef 
God  wuz  tuh  lif '  her  outer  trouble  onct,  she  cert'n'y 
w'an't  goin'  tuh  put  her  paws  in  no  other  trap  men- 
folks  could  set  for  her." 

"  So  you  think  marriage  is  a  failure,  Ramie  ?" 

"  I  dunno  'bout  others,  Miss  Barb'ra,"  said  the  little 
woman,  shrewdly ;  "  hit  cert'n'y  is  ben  fail  fuh  me." 

After  Barbara  had  put  on  her  gown  of  creamy  serge 
and  arranged  her  hair  in  sleek  compactness,  she  looked 
as  fresh  and  pure  as  some  white  bird  just  out  of  its 
dip  in  a  morning  pool.  Her  face  was  no  longer  pale 
and  wretched  as  on  the  night  before,  but  in  her  eyes 
and  about  her  lips  was  a  look  of  alert  determination 
that  grew  as  she  searched  among  the  trifles  on  her 
writing-table  for  pen,  paper,  and  sealing-wax.  After 
settling  everything  to  her  liking  she  sat  down,  and 
bending  low  above  the  sheet  in  front  of  her,  as  though 
afraid  that  some  one  might  peep  over  her  shoulder, 
wrote  the  following  note  to  Bering : 

"DEAR, — I  feel  that  I  have  been  wrong  and  have 
wounded  you,  and  I  do  want  to  make  friends  again.  I 
can't  say  more  than  that  I'm  sorry.  Can  I,  my  Jock 
o'  hazel  e'en  ?  (Don't  think  I've  made  a  mistake  here 
in  writing  e'en  instead  of  dean ! ! !  It  is  meant  for  a 
pun  !)  I  mean  to  be  the  goodest  girl  in  the  world  from 
this  day  on,  though  I  won't  say  you  were  all  in  the 


BARBARA   DERING.  61 

right.  But  I  am  sorry,  and  I  have  been  hideously 
unhappy  all  night,  and  —  here  is  a  kiss,  if  you  want  it 
from  your 

"  BARBARA." 

She  ended  by  drawing  a  somewhat  scraggy  circle  on 
the  paper  and  placing  her  lips  upon  it,  as  children  do 
when  they  send  kisses  in  a  letter  ;  then  sealed  the  little 
envelope  with  a  huge,  documentary-looking  seal,  and 
started  off  to  slip  it  under  Bering's  door.  After  doing 
this  she  ran  down-stairs,  wishing  to  get  away  before 
he  could  call  her,  and  was  startled  to  see,  lying  on  one 
of  the  hall  tables,  an  envelope  addressed  to  her  in  his 
handwriting. 

She  lifted  it,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  pleasure  quick 
ening  her  face. 

"  How  dear  of  him  !"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  He 
has  written  to  me,  too  !" 

Alone  under  the  big  walnut-trees  on  the  lawn,  she 
stood  still,  and,  thrusting  an  eager  thumb  beneath  the 
flap  of  the  envelope,  tore  it  open  :  then  saw  that  there 
was  only  a  line  or  two,  and  her  heart  fell.  This  was 
Bering's  message  : 

"DEAR  BARBARA,  —  Bently  has  been  badgering  me 
for  years  to  come  and  have  a  deer-hunt  with  him  in 
the  Eagged  Mountains,  and,  as  this  seems  about  as 
good  a  time  as  any,  I'm  off.  Yours, 


Barbara  stood  gazing  down  at  the  bit  of  paper  in 
her  hand,  while  her  lips  and  nostrils  whitened  slowly. 

Mixed  with  the  stab  of  pain,  which  came  in  the  con 
sciousness  that  he  wished  to  leave  her,  was  a  vehement 

6 


62  BARBARA  DERTNG. 

feeling  of  wounded  pride,  when  she  reflected  as  to 
what  others  might  say  and  think. 

"  They  will  say  that  he  is  bored ;  that  he  is  tired  of 
me ;  that  I  weary  him."  Then  she  turned  and  walked 
a  little  way,  not  seeing  the  objects  about  her  very 
distinctly. 

"  How  could  he !"  she  said  aloud,  looking  up  at  the 
dazzling  autumn  blue  with  its  fret-work  of  little  dark 
twigs,  on  which,  here  and  there,  spun  a  gay  copper- 
colored  leaf.  That  sharp  feeling  of  repulsion  and 
anger  which  had  so  consumed  her  a  few  hours  ago 
returned  stronger  than  ever.  She  walked  slowly  back 
to  the  house,  and,  opening  Bering's  door,  lifted  her  note 
to  him  and,  after  smiling  at  it  for  a  second,  tossed  it 
into  the  fire.  His,  however,  she  kept. 

"  I'll  look  at  it  whenever  I'm  inclined  to  be  impul 
sive,"  she  told  herself.  Then  she  sat  down  in  one  of 
the  old  oak  chairs  with  which  the  lower  hall  was  fur 
nished,  and,  taking  her  chin  into  the  palm  of  her  right 
hand,  stared  before  her  at  the  vivid  day  outside.  She 
had  a  distinct  fear  of  pondering  too  deeply  upon  this 
new  aspect  of  affairs,  and  made  an  effort  to  concentrate 
her  thoughts  upon  the  masses  of  small  polished  leaves 
which  the  great  box-hedge  in  front  of  her  was  swing 
ing  gently  in  the  light  wind. 

Before  she  knew  exactly  what  had  happened,  a  car 
riage  stopped  on  the  gravel,  and  some  one,  standing 
in  slight  silhouette  on  the  threshold,  knocked  at  the 
open  door. 


BARBARA   DERING.  63 


XL 

BARBARA  did  not  wait  for  a  servant,  but  came  forward 
herself,  assuming  a  pretty  look  of  hospitality.  She  did 
not  recognize  her  visitor  until  within  a  few  feet  of  her, 
and  even  then  hesitated.  It  had  been  a  long  while 
since  she  had  seen  Eunice  Denison, — twelve  years  at 
least,  and  they  had  both  been  school-girls  then,  and  not 
intimate ;  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  almost  shadowy 
suppleness  of  outline  and  floating  walk  could  not  be 
long  to  another  woman. 

"  Is  it  really  you,  Eunice  ?"  she  asked,  a  little  shyly. 
"  Yes,  I  see  it  is.  You  haven't  changed  much,  after  all. 
It's  your  expression,  I  think." 

"And  yours,"  returned  Mrs.  Bransby ;  "  but  somehow 
you  look  younger,  Barbara." 

"  Do  I  ?"  said  Barbara,  still  shy.  She  had  never  been 
quite  at  her  ease  with  this  woman,  and  now  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  pale,  clear  little  face  was  colder  and 
less  easy  to  read  than  ever.  Mrs.  Bransby  had  eyes  of 
a  cool  blue,  with  graceful  eyebrows  and  long  curved 
lashes.  Her  dark,  shining  hair  grew  in  great  quantities 
from  a  broad  but  low  band  of  forehead.  Her  mouth, 
with  its  wide,  deeply-carved  lips,  was  very  lovely.  She 
was  one  of  those  women  whom  fanciful  people  at 
once  associate  with  frail  and  faintly-colored  flowers, 
and  in  her  dress  of  some  soft  lilac  tint  she  reminded 
Barbara  at  this  moment  of  a  drowsy  branch  of  helio 
trope. 

She  entered  the  hall  with  her  languid,  swaying  gait, 
and  sank  into  the  chair  from  which  Barbara  had  just 
risen,  looking  about  her  and  saying,  finally, — 


64  BARBARA  DERINQ. 

"  What  a  pretty  old  hall !  You  must  love  this  place 
very  dearly,  Barbara." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Barbara.  "  I  never  feel  quite ( me,' 
so  to  speak,  anywhere  else." 

Mrs.  Bransby  gave  her  slow  smile,  and  lifting  her 
narrow,  graceful  hands  in  their  gloves  of  pale-grayi 
suede,  began  to  unfasten  her  veil. 

"  Oh,  let  me  do  it!"  urged  Barbara,  girlishly.  "  You 
will  strain  your  sleeves,  and  I  do  so  love  to  *  potter 
about'  people." 

"  I  must  be  horribly  frowzy,"  said  Eunice,  just  touch 
ing  the  thick  hair  under  her  little  hat  of  violets. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Barbara ;  "  hair  like  yours  is  lovely 
blown  about.  But  perhaps  you  would  rather  come  to 
my  room  and  arrange  it." 

"  Thanks ;  you  are  very  good.     I  should  like  that." 

Admitting  a  guest  into  one's  bedroom  establishes  at 
once  a  state  of  mental  as  well  as  physical  ease.  Bar 
bara  felt  much  less  constrained  as  she  moved  about, 
arranging  little  details  for  her  friend's  comfort.  She 
ended,  to  her  own  astonishment,  by  asking  to  be 
allowed  to  brush  the  wavy  dark  hair  which  Eunice 
had  shaken  over  her  shoulders,  and  soon  the  two 
were  chattering  brightly  together,  like  children  en 
gaged  in  tricking  each  other  out  to  look  like  "  grown 
people." 

Barbara  found  that  Eunice  had  been  married  ten 
years,  and  that  her  two  daughters  were  named  Lois  and 
Winifred  ;  that  her  husband  had  bought  an  old  house 
in  the  neighborhood  called  The  Poplars,  where  they  had 
now  come  to  live,  and  that  she  was  "  oh,  yes,  quite 
happy." 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  we  are  to  live  near  each  other," 
said  Barbara,  warmly.  "  Women  do  need  women  so 


BARBARA  D BRING.  65 

much  sometimes.  I  have  always  wanted  a  real  woman 
friend." 

"  I  am  so  cold  in  my  manner.  I  repel  people  so," 
murmured  Eunice,  coloring  delicately.  "  I  always  man 
age  to  say  the  wrong  thing." 

"But  what  difference  does  manner  make  if  one's 
heart  is  warm?"  asked  Barbara,  earnestly.  "Some 
times  those  people — those  seemingly  cold  people,  I 
mean — have  the  most  glowing  natures." 

Mrs.  Bransby,  who  had  been  looking  rather  sadly  out 
of  the  window,  now  turned  her  quiet  blue  eyes  upon 
Barbara,  smiling  a  little. 

"  I  am  smiling  because  I  fancy  how  astonished  you 
would  look  if  I  told  you  something." 

"Ah,  do  tell  me!"  said  Barbara,  leaning  forward 
with  her  ardent  air  of  self-forgetfulness.  "  Is  it  pleas 
ant?" 

"  Oh,  it's  not  anything  very  much  ;  only — I'm  not  in 
the  habit  of  saying  such  things.  You  can  believe  me. 
What  I  was  thinking  was  this :  you've  always  had 
such  a  strange,  decided  charm  for  me." 

"  I !"  exclaimed  Barbara,  genuinely  amazed.  "  Why, 
I  thought  you  almost  disliked  me." 

"  No  ;  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  you." 

«  Afraid  of  me  !     But  why  ?" 

"  You  were  so  vivid,  so  daring.  You  never  seemed 
to  be  afraid  of  anything,  to  dread  anything.  I  was 
always  a  mousie  creature." 

"But  I  don't  dare  everything  now,"  said  Barbara, 
shaking  her  head.  "  There  are  some  things  that  I 
dread  with  all  my  heart.  I  understand  how  you  feel, 
though." 

"  I  was  like  a  gray  pigeon  and  you  were  like  a  cardi 
nal-bird.  You  used  to  fascinate  me.  You  had  the 
e  6* 


66  BARBARA   DERING. 

same  charm  for  me  that  a  generous  wood-fire  has  for 
a  chilly  temperament,  only  I  was  always  so  afraid  of 
boring  you." 

"  Why,  I  had  that  same  feeling  about  you,"  said 
Barbara.  "You  seemed  so  placid  and  self-contained. 
You  were  always  reading  some  deep  book.  I  thought 
that  I  would  only  disturb  you  if  I  spoke  to  you." 

"  I  used  to  watch  you  from  a  distance,"  continued 
Eunice.  "You  seemed  like  a  free  woodland  thing. 
There  was  such  zest  in  your  voice,  in  your  laughter." 

"  And  you,"  returned  Barbara ;  "  I  used  to  watch  you, 
too.  You  seemed  like  a  delicate  porcelain  vase  in 
which  a  love-letter  is  hidden.  I  longed  to  speak 
with  you  and  ask  you  what  you  thought  of  life,  of 
love." 

"  The  less  one  dreams  such  dreams  the  nearer  one 
is  to  content.  I  am  teaching  my  girls  not  to  have 
romantic  ideas,"  said  Eunice,  with  uneager  bitterness. 
"  I  hope  they  will  never  marry." 

"  It  is  a  great  risk,"  Barbara  admitted.  She  grew 
suddenly  pale  and  felt  that  Eunice  was  regarding  her 
questioningly. 

"  One  never  knows.  There  is  no  way  of  judging 
before  marriage,"  she  went  on,  falteringly. 

"  Barbara !"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Tell  me.  Why 
do  you  think  that  marriages  are  so  often  unhappy  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Barbara,  not  meeting  her 
eyes.  "I  don't  know,"  she  repeated,  sadly.  "There 
is  something  all  wrong  about  it.  One  can  never  tell 
what  will  happen  afterwards.  For  one  thing,  men  are 
so  much  more  material  than  we  are.  Passion  with  us 
is  an  imaginative,  half-spiritual  thing.  Their  ideas  of 
it  are  generally  very  practical  and  matter-of-fact.  A 
man  cannot  understand  that  his  very  way  of  taking 


BARBARA   D BRING.  67 

your  hand  in  his  may  set  your  heart  beating  happily 
or  chill  you  to  the  marrow." 

Eunice's  lips  were  parted.  Her  wide  eyes  were  fast 
ened  upon  Barbara.  She  seemed  to  be  quivering 
through  and  through  with  some  life-giving  emotion. 
"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  urgent  expectancy, 
as  Barbara  paused. 

"  As  a  rule  they  don't  care  for  the  little  things  which 
make  up  life  for  us,"  Barbara  went  on.  "  I  suppose 
women  do  regard  detail  too  much.  It's  so  in  art  as 
well  as  in  love.  We  ought  to  look  more  to  the  broad 
masses  and  the  general  composition  of  things." 

"  I  suppose  a  tack  in  one's  shoe  is  a  detail  ?"  asked 
Eunice,  quietly. 

Somehow  the  two  women  found  that  their  hands 
were  tightly  clasped  together.  Under  an  impulse  en 
tirely  new  to  her  Eunice  leaned  forward  and  pressed 
her  lips  to  Barbara's  forehead.  When  they  looked  at 
each  other  their  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 


XII. 

WHEN  Eunice  had  gone  away,  Barbara  walked  down 
the  low  stone  steps  of  the  south  porch  upon  the  faded 
grass  of  the  lawn.  The  day  had  grown  warmer.  The 
dim  blue  masses  of  the  distant  woods  quivered  through 
ascending  sheets  of  intense,  crystal-clear  heat.  A  bird 
near  by  uttered  a  spring-like  note.  Barbara's  un 
shaded  face  showed  a  pale-gold  freckle  here  and  there 
in  the  dazzle  of  autumn  light.  Her  hair  was  a  splen 
did  banner  of  fire.  As  she  -walked  onward  with  her 
buoyant,  power-suggesting  gait,  her  white  gown  beat- 


68  BARBARA  DERINO. 

ing  about  her  in  the  wind,  with  motions  suggestive  of 
a  happy  freedom,  there  was  a  tired,  unhopeful  look  in 
her  eyes,  which  seemed  out  of  key  with  the  rest  of  her 
vivid  being. 

She  reached  a  gate  crusted  with  flat  rosettes  of 
green-gray,  black-lined  lichens,  paused,  hesitated,  then, 
resting  her  arms  along  its  top,  stared  out  into  the  shim 
mer  of  delicate  air.  Perhaps  it  was  the  contrast  of 
her  own  sadness,  but  as  she  stood  there  a  sense  of  the 
world-joy  that  was  pulsing  in  the  sunlit  spaces  about 
her  began  to  seep  into  her  senses,  physical  and  mental. 
A  small,  green  creature  on  the  top  of  the  gate  near 
her  elbow  stretched  out  first  one  fine  serrated  leg,  then 
the  other,  then  spread  its  frail  wings,  refolded  them  in 
their  brittle-looking  sheaths,  and  slowly  waving  its  hair- 
like  antennae,  began  a  shrill,  vibrant  chirr  of  absolute 
content.  A  spider  was  busily  engaged  in  weaving  its 
web  between  the  latch  of  the  gate  and  a  lilac  twig 
above ;  not  a  foot  away,  in  the  warm  grass,  something 
stirred,  glided,  was  still.  She  had  that  subtle  sense  of 
being  gazed  at.  Staring  more  intensely,  she  saw  a 
pair  of  sparkling  eyes,  no  larger  than  one  seed  of  a 
blackberry,  set  obliquely  in  an  arrow-shaped  head. 
The  young  snake  remained  breathless  to  her  sight,  its 
burning,  bronze-brown  squares  unchanging,  its  dapper 
head  erect. 

"  I  would  not  hurt  you,  my  dear,"  said  Barbara,  ad 
dressing  it,  gravely.  "  Why  are  you  afraid  ?  Go  home 
to  your  pretty  mate." 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  moccasin  lowered  its 
crest  and  slithered  away  under  an  evergreen  beside 
the  gate. 

She  smiled  to  herself,  "  I  should  have  killed  it,  I 
suppose.  It  was  a  poisonous  snake.  But  why  kill  a 


BARBARA  DERI  NO.  69 

thing  that  is  only  poisonous  in  self-defence  ?  Besides, 
these  sun-rays  reached  us  both  at  the  same  moment, 
and  we  both  love  sunlight.  Somehow,  on  a  day  like 
this,  one  is  conscious  with  a  great  triumph  that  God 
makes  his  sun  to  shine  on  the  just  and  the  unjust,  on 
serpents  as  well  as  on  flowers,  that  His  whole  world  to 
its  very  core  is  glowing  with  His  love.  You,  too,  little 
one.  I  won't  spoil  your  wheel  of  lace.  I  shall  be 
undignified  and  climb  instead." 

Putting  her  hands  on  the  low  gate,  she  sprang,  boy- 
like,  into  the  field  beyond.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
day  was  a  warm  violet  in  the  shadows,  a  rose-gold  in 
the  light.  The  nestling  straw-stacks,  in  the  hollow  of 
a  near  meadow,  shone  silver  dashed  with  pink.  The 
golden-rod  was  turning  to  ashes  on  its  tall  stalks. 
Little  apple-like,  yellow  balls,  growing  low  in  the  rank 
weeds,  tapped  against  her  feet  as  she  passed.  She 
was  walking  aimlessly,  striving  to  draw  into  herself 
some  of  the  plenteous  sufficiency  of  the  hour.  Her 
thoughts  danced  as  changefully  as  the  glistening  cloud 
of  gnats  that  spun  before  her  in  circles  of  steely  light. 
As  she  nibbled  a  bit  of  sassafras  which  she  had  broken 
in  passing,  her  thoughts  flew  back  to  her  childhood,  to 
her  girlhood.  She  dropped  the  sweet-smelling  twig 
suddenly  and  stood  quite  still.  She  could  see  Valen 
tine  standing  there  beside  her,  the  flash  of  his  smile, 
his  extended  hand,  slender,  strong. 

"  How  these  childish  things  come  back !  foolish  jests ! 
little,  trivial  love-speeches!"  It  seemed  to  her  that 
her  heart  trembled  within  her.  "  1  must  reason  with 
myself,"  she  said,  aloud.  "  I  see  quite  clearly  that  I 
would  have  been  far  braver,  far  nobler,  if  I  had  con 
tented  myself  with  the  memory  of  my  dear "  She 

broke  off  again,  then  went  on  in  a  whisper,  the  tears 


70  BARBARA  DERING. 

falling:  "Oh,  he  is  my  dear!  I  cannot  help  that,  my 
love  for  him  is  so  pure,  so  high,  it  cannot  clash  witli 
any  duty.  Why  do  I  always  remember  those  dreadful 
words, — '  Yet  I  have  somewhat  against  thee,  because 
thou  hast  left  thy  first  love'  ?  God's  face  seems  always 
frowning  upon  me.  Dear  Yal,  dear  Yal.  be  my  good 
angel  and  help  me,  and  teach  me  how  to  be  good,  how 
to  do  what  is  right !" 

She  lifted  her  tear-washed  face,  with  eyes  closed  and 
quivering  and  hands  pressed  against  her  breast. 

When  she  went  back  to  the  house,  it  was  with  the 
determination  to  accept  naturally  and  with  courage 
the  life  which  she  had  prepared  for  herself. 

It  was  a  week  later  that  Eameses  knocked  at  the 
door  with  a  telegram,  which  ran  as  follows  :  "  Splendid 
weather.  First-rate  sport.  Four  big  fellows  for  the 
hall.  Be  with  you  at  six  P.M."  She  could  not  help 
laughing  as  she  recalled  the  king's  letter  in  Ruy  Bias  : 
"  Madame,  il  a  fait  beaucoup  de  vent  etfai  tuesept  loups" 

Barbara  had  suffered  intensely  during  the  past 
week.  She  was  not  exactly  in  the  mood  which  Dering 
would  have  chosen  her  to  wear  for  his  reception.  In 
stead  of  answering  his  wire,  she  sat  down  at  once  and 
wrote  a  pretty  note  to  Eunice  Bransby,  asking  her 
to  spend  the  afternoon  and  dine  with  her:  of  course, 
if  Mr.  Bransby  was  at  The  Poplars,  she  hoped  he  would 
come  too. 

When  Dering  reached  the  station,  a  few  hours  later, 
he  felt  rather  astonished  to  see  that  Barbara  was  not 
in  the  trap  which  had  been  sent  to  meet  him.  Then 
he  gave  his  shoulders  a  half-pleased,  half-vexed  shake, 
and  muttered  to  himself,  "  She's  still  sulking,  the  big 
darling!"  He  thought  that  it  would  be  excessively 
pleasant  to  spend  the  next  hour  or  so  in  coaxing  her 


BARBARA  DERING.  71 

out  of  the  dumps,  and  drew  little  imaginary  sketches 
as  he  sent  the  cart  rattling  vehemently  over  the  abomi 
nable  roads. 

"  She'll  be  cold  at  first,  the  blessed  angel, — awfully 
cold ;  then  she'll  give  me  the  devil  of  a  dose  of  sarcasm, 
then  she'll  get  rather  sad  and  forlorn,  the  beauty! 
Gad!  how  I  do  dote  on  her!  Get  along,  you  snail,  or 
I'll  sell  you  !  You  can't  trot  against  a  cat !  Then — let 
me  see.  I  don't  know  whether  I'll  hold  her  and  kiss 
her  or  not.  I'll  just  get  my  arms  around  her,  and  she'll 
probably  kiss  me.  What  a  mouth  !  And  how  proud 
she  is,  the  vixen  !  By  Jove !  she  is  a  vixen  !  Couldn't 
have  stood  any  other  kind.  Does  me  lots  of  good ;  as 
for  that,  egad  !  I'll  do  her  a  lot  before  we're  through ! 
It's  like  spanking  a  queen  with  her  sceptre  to  tell  her 
of  her  faults.  I  swear  it  is !"  He  broke  off  and 
laughed  appreciatively,  a  gay,  boyish  laugh.  His  eyes 
were  clear  and  bright  as  gems.  There  was  a  whole 
some  brownness  over  his  face  and  throat.  His  curls 
needed  cutting.  He  had  suffered  as  well  as  Barbara 
during  this  eventful  week,  but  in  an  entirely  different 
way.  Her  emotions  had  been  conflicting,  tearing,  of 
the  kind  that  wears  holes  in  the  fabric  of  the  spirit. 
Dering's  had  consisted  of  an  intense  desire  to  be  with 
her,  to  return  and  let  her  bully  him  to  her  heart's  con 
tent,  and,  at  the  same  time,  of  a  virile,  almost  sullen 
determination  to  remain  where  he  was.  But  it  is  im 
possible  to  be  a  genuine  sportsman,  in  pursuit  of  big 
game,  and  to  allow  entirely  sentimental  passions  to 
absorb  you.  Dering  had  finally  yielded,  without  re 
serve,  to  the  woodland  soothing  which  stole  over  him. 
After  each  day's  hard  shooting  he  had  been  too  tired 
to  do  more  than  fling  himself  down  on  his  bed  of  pine 
boughs  and  sleep  like  an  exhausted  boy. 


72  BARBARA  DERING. 

When  he  reached  Rosemary,  one  vigorous  leap  took 
him  from  the  wheel  to  the  portico.  She  was  not  there 
to  meet  him.  He  gave  his  shoulders  another  shake, 
and  began  darting  into  different  rooms  in  search  of 
her.  At  last  his  face  softened,  and  he  said, — 

"  The  dear !     She's  waiting  for  me  in  our  room." 

He  went  up  the  stairs  on  tiptoe,  three  steps  at  a 
time.  At  Barbara's  door  he  paused.  She  was  talking 
to  some  one,  probably  Barneses.  He  waited  a  second 
longer  and  then  entered. 

"  Oh !  it's  you,  Jock  ?"  said  Barbara,  coming  forward 
with  a  cup  of  tea  in  her  hand.  "  How  nice  and  brown 
you  look !  This  is  Mrs.  Bransby, — Eunice  Denison. 
I've  told  you  about  her  often." 

Dering  had  a  flashing  desire  to  grind,  with  disagree 
able  intensity,  the  slim  hand  which  Mrs.  Bransby  held 
out  to  him.  His  anger  against  Barbara  came  back 
with  a  force  which  astonished  him.  It  was  like  the 
slap  of  a  wave  whose  force  and  distance  one  has  mis 
calculated.  He  turned  off,  saying,  curtly,  "  JSro,  thanks. 
I  don't  want  any  tea.  There's  a  parcel  for  you  that 
came  by  express,  Barbara,  and  two  letters.  Do  you 
know  where  Tobit  is  ?  I  want  a  tub." 

Tobit  was  rung  for,  and  Barbara  came  back  smiling, 
somewhat  selfishly,  Eunice  thought.  "  Can  you  be 
a  little  cruel  sometimes,  Barbara?"  she  asked  in  her 
pale  voice. 

Barbara  tossed  her  head  back  on  the  frame  of  her 
chair  and  let  the  firelight  gild  her  throat. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Most  of  us  can 
and  do,  I  suppose.  But  it's  nonsense  to  call  us  like 
cats.  Are  lions  never  cruel,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"In  a  different  way,"  said  Eunice.  "Cats  know 
how  to  produce  a  more  elaborate  suffering." 


BARBARA   DERINO.  73 

"  You  are  mistaken  if  you  think  I  like  to  make 
people  suffer,"  returned  Barbara,  a  little  coldly. 

"  Dear  Barbara,"  said  the  other,  "  I  did  not  say  that 

you  liked  to  be  cruel.  It  is  only  that — that " 

She  paused,  her  face  flushing. 

"  That  what,  dear?"  asked  Barbara,  with  one  of  her 
swift  changes  to  entire  gentleness. 

"It  is  this,"  went  on  Eunice,  speaking  rapidly  and 
looking  down :  "  I  feel  that  your  husband  has  a  grande 
passion  for  you.  It  seems  a  senseless  thing  to  say, 
after  just  this  glimpse  of  him.  I  never  spoke  so  to 
any  one  before.  But — but  such  feeling  is — is  very 
rare.  All  women  don't  win  it.  It — it  is  a  mistake  to 
think  that  men  as  men  are  necessarily  very  intense 
in  their  feelings."  Barbara  knew,  by  the  quick  pulses 
in  the  hand  which  she  had  taken  in  hers,  how  her 
friend's  heart  was  beating.  Eunice  glanced  at  her 
shyly,  almost  timidly. 

"  He  looked  so  disappointed  when  he  saw  me,"  she 

said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I — I Do  let  me  go  away 

now,  Barbara.  I  can  explain  it  perfectly  to  Godfrey, 
and  we  can  come  to-morrow  instead." 

"No,"  said  Barbara,  her  face  hardening  again. 
"  No ;  I  shall  be  very  hurt  if  you  go.  We  were  having 
the  most  delightful  talk.  But,  of  course,  if  you  want 
to " 

"  Oh,  no !  no,  truly !"  exclaimed  Eunice,  hurriedly. 
"  Please  don't  think  me  impertinent.  Of  course,  you 

know  best.  Only We  were  talking  of  Sara  in 

Cleopatra,  I  think." 

"  Ah,  yes !  that  was  it.  Do  you  remember  how  she 
says,  '  Pure  politique  riest-ce  pas'  ?" 


74  BARBARA  DERING. 


XIII. 

BARBARA  and  Godfrey  Bransby  were  mutually  re 
pelled  at  first  sight.  It  was  a  mental  sensation  ex 
actly  corresponding  to  the  physical  one  which  may 
disturb  the  most  excellent  cat  in  the  world  at  the  sight 
of  the  worthiest  dog. 

Bransby  could  not  have  explained  himself  clearly, 
but  the  color  of  Barbara's  hair  struck  him  as  being 
too  intense  for  good  form,  and  her  figure  suggested  a 
pedestal  so  forcibly  as  to  be  rather  theatric.  He 
thought  of  the  different  stage  Galateas  whom  he  had 
seen,  and  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  Mrs.  Ber 
ing  would  fill  the  role  more  completely  than  any  of  the 
others.  He  did  not  like  the  easy  grace  of  her  atti 
tudes.  She  looked  too  strong  for  a  woman.  Her 
powdering  of  faint  yellow  freckles  was  too  realistic. 
She  struck  him  as  an  American  autumn  strikes  some 
artists,  as  too  vivid,  too  daring,  too  brightly-colored. 
Bransby  was  fond  of  saying  that  he  looked  upon 
woman  as  the  highest  product  of  Christianity,  and  Bar 
bara  suggested  Paganism  in  all  its  broader  meanings, 
just  as  her  figure  suggested  that  of  a  heathen  goddess. 
When  he  found  in  the  course  of  the  evening  that  she 
could  ride  half-broken  colts,  train  a  dog  thoroughly, 
keep  a  shuttlecock  up  to  a  thousand,  swim,  run,  and 
jump  like  a  boy,  he  could  hardly  keep  his  violent  dis 
sent  from  showing  in  his  face. 

"  I  have  scarcely  any  doubt,"  he  told  Eunice,  on  his 
way  home,  "  that  Mrs.  Dering  is  the  sort  of  woman 
who  smokes  cigarettes.  I  trust  that  you  will  be  very 


BARBARA  D BRING.  75 

guarded  in  your  relations  with  her.  She  seems  to  ine 
most  unfeminine.  That  dagger-like  arrangement  that 
she  wore  in  her  hair  struck  me  as  disagreeably  bar 
baric.  Then  she  said  several  things  that  I  considered 
decidedly  irreverent,  not  to  say  verging  on  the  blas 
phemous.  That  anecdote  from  '  Life,'  in  which  a  child 
alludes  to  the  Deity  and  Santa  Glaus  in  the  same  sen 
tence,  was,  to  me,  intensely  shocking.  1  also  heard 
her  say  something  about  Eossetti.  I  hope,  Eunice,  that 
you  will  promise  me  that  you  will  not  let  Mrs.  Dering 
lead  you  into  reading  such  authors.  They  are  un 
wholesome  and  unnatural.  These  overstrained  sensa 
tions  are  not  what  men  and  women  feel  nowadays. 
I  am  devoutly  thankful,  my  dear,  that  you  are  a  sen 
sible,  practical,  self-contained  woman.  You  make  me 
very  happy  indeed." 

At  this  point  he  had  taken  her  hand  loosely  in  his 
and  brushed  the  corner  of  her  mouth  with  his  stiff 
moustache.  As  he  leaned  back  again  in  his  side  of  the 
carriage,  he  did  not  see  the  rather  odd  smile  that 
stirred  his  wife's  lips. 

The  dinner  had  not  been  very  exhilarating.  Barbara 
accentuated  the  bad  impression  she  had  made  on 
Bransby  by  talking  a  great  deal.  Dering,  who  had  a 
royal  way  of  remaining  entirely  silent  when  he  chose, 
said  not  a  word,  while  Bransby  was  politely  non-com 
mittal,  and  Eunice  struggled  shyly  with  a  sense  of 
embarrassment,  born  of  the  knowledge  that  she  and 
her  husband  were  the  cause  of  Dering's  ill-humor. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  come  to  strike  up  such 
an  intimacy  with  these  people?"  demanded  Dering, 
crossly,  when  the  Bransbys  had  left.  "  The  man's  cut 
out  for  a  monk.  I  never  saw  a  more  bloodless,  self- 
satisfied  rigidarian,  to  coin  a  word.  You  wonder  how 


76  BARBARA   DERINQ. 

he   ever  permitted   himself  the   indulgence   of   mar 
riage  I" 

"  He  is  detestable,"  said  Barbara,  "  but  she  is  lovely. 
She  makes  me  think  of  a  lovely  Ice  maiden " 

"  Bah  !"  returned  Dering,  with  gruffness ;  "  she  isn't 
cold.  It's  the  man.  He's  a  monstrosity." 

"  He  probably  thinks  that  we  are  monstrosities,"  said 
Barbara,  easily. 

"  Yes,  he  hates  you  cordially,  my  dear.  I  wonder  he 
lets  his  wife  associate  with  you." 

"  Perhaps  he  won't,  now  that  he  has  met  me." 

"  Perhaps  not.  What  a  jolly  awakening  she  must 
have  had  after  her  marriage !" 

"  Marriage  has  rather  that  result,  as  a  rule." 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  be  a  good  judge,"  said  Dering, 
brutally,  goaded  to  this  by  the  insinuation  of  her 
remark. 

Barbara  left  the  room.  Opening  the  hall  door, 
she  went  out  into  the  rich  darkness.  After  a  while 
she  could  see  objects  dimly,  and  the  sharp  stars  that 
pierced  through  the  film  of  night.  Wilful  was  crop 
ping  grass  near  the  tall  acacia  clumps.  She  whis 
tled  and  he  came  to  her,  feeling  for  sugar  with  his 
velvety  lips.  Then,  her  arms  about  his  strong  neck, 
she  let  the  tears  gush  as  they  would,  while  he  rubbed 
his  head  against  her  so  ardently  that  she  was  pressed 
rather  roughly  against  the  stem  of  one  of  the  trees 
behind  her.  A  snuffing  sound  about  her  feet  startled 
her.  Dering's  Irish  setter  had  found  her  and  was 
leaping  up  in  the  gloomy  air. 

"  Good  boy !  you've  found  her,"  said  Dering's  voice, 
not  two  yards  away.  "  Down,  now  ;  down,  you  brute  \ 
Did  he  frighten  you,  Barbara  ?  Darling !  I've  come  to 
tell  you  how  sorry  I  am." 


BARBARA   D BRING.  77 

She  began  to  sob  despairingly,  her  arms  still  about 
the  neck  of  Wilful,  who  was  too  familiar  with  "  Brick" 
to  have  been  startled  by  his  sudden  appearance. 

"Oh,  Barbara,  Barbara,"  said  Bering,  agonized, 
"  what  a  devil  I  am  sometimes !  I  honestly  believe  I 
am  possessed.  How  I  have  hurt  you!  What  can  I 
say?  Everything  seems  so  tame.  Look!  I  kneel  to 
you,  dearest ;  I  worship  you ;  I  adore  you ;  you  are  my 
queen,  as  always." 

"You — you — I  am  sure  you  didn't  mean  it,"  said 
Barbara,  stammering. 

"  Oh,  but  I  did,  I  did !"  cried  Dering,  with  terrible 
honesty.  "  You  will  never  know  how  it  galls  and  stings 
me  sometimes,  darling,  to  remember  that  you  loved 
some  one  before  you  loved  me.  It's  like  red-hot  nippers 
tearing  me.  That's  all,  Barbara,  I  swear  it.  When  I'm 
cruel  to  you,  try  to  remember  that." 

"Yes,  it  is  dreadful.  It  is  dreadful  to  me,  too," 
sobbed  Barbara.  Dering  dragged  away  her  hands,  and 
bent  his  face  so  near  that  she  felt  his  quick  breaths. 

"  Barbara,  we  are  very  cruel  to  each  other  some 
times,"  he  whispered ;  "  but  au  fond,  we  love  each  other 
more  than  most, — eh,  dearest  ?  Look !  I  am  famished 
for  a  kiss!  Oh,  Barberina,  I  have  thought  of  your 
lips  all  this  past  week !  What  a  fool,  what  a  double- 
dyed  fool,  I  was  to  go  away  from  you  !  Will  you  kiss 
me  now,  my  blessed  angel?  I'm  a  starved  Jock." 

"  Oh !"  sighed  Barbara,  lifting  her  arms  from  Wilful' 8 
neck,  "  if  you  love  me,  what  does  it  all  matter?"  And 
he  took  her  to  his  heart. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  peremptorily,  after  a  few  moments, 
"  come  into  the  house  and  let  me  make  you  comfort 
able.  What  an  evening  we  can  have  over  our  wood- 
fire  !  Oh,  my  dearie,  what  it  is  to  be  with  you  again !" 

7* 


78  BARBARA   D BRING. 

He  took  her  up  to  their  room,  and,  after  finding  her 
dressing-gown  which  he  liked  best,  began  to  brush  out 
and  plait  her  heavy  hair. 

"  Sometimes,  Jock,  you  treat  me  exactly  like  a  big 
doll,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  as  she  let  her  head  give  to 
his  eager  brushings. 

"  A  doll !  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  You  are 
the  most  delicious  morsel  of  flesh  and  blood  I  ever 
imagined." 

"  Oh,  please  don't  speak  to  me  as  though  I  were  an 
ortolan !"  said  Barbara,  rather  pettishly.  She  felt 
chilled,  and  that  her  mood  was  arrested  all  of  a  sudden. 
Dering  threw  the  brush  on  the  table  and  stood  before 
the  fire,  grinning  a  little. 

"You  dear  seraph!"  he  said.  "I  suppose  you'd 
really  appreciate  the  sort  of  husband  that  St.  Cecilia 
had.  I  can't  help  being  a  man's  man.  I  wish  to 
Heaven  I  did  have  more  of  the  feminine  in  me,  but  it 
just  isn't  there.  What  are  we  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"  If  you  would  listen  to  me,"  began  Barbara  slowly, 
her  eyes  on  the  fire. 

"  Oh,  Barbara !"  he  exclaimed,  throwing  himself 
against  her  knees  and  clasping  the  arms  of  her  chair 
in  either  hand,  "  don't  be  artificial !  I'm  not  in  the 
mood  to  appreciate  the  sisterly,  sweet  hand-in-hand 
affair.  I  warn  you,  frankly.  You  are  the  most  beau 
tiful  of  women,  and  not  my  sister,  but  my  wife.  Would 
you  really  have  me  love  you  as  your  brother,  Barbara  ?" 

"No!  no,  indeed!"  she  assured  him.     "But " 

"  But  what  ?  but  what  ?"  he  repeated,  eagerly.  "  Are 
you  going  to  criticise  the  laws  of  God  ?  Do  you  mean 
to  say,  '  Yes,  of  course,  Providence  is  right,  but  it 
seems  strange  He  didn't  order  things  another  way.  / 
should  have  made  love  less  vehement? '  That  sort  of 


BARBARA   DERING.  79 

stuff  always  seemed  to  me  such  impertinent  bosh,  dear. 
I  love  you  as  God  meant  men  to  lovo  their  wives, — 
intensely,  wholly.  You  are  not  my  sister;  I  am  not 
your  brother." 

"A  perfect  love  is  both  spiritual  and  passionate," 
said  Barbara,  timidly.  "Men — most  men — will  not 
understand  that.  I — I  don't  deny  that,  Jock.  I  only 
mean  that  if  you  were  more  gentle  ! — women  love  that 
sort  of  love.  They  must  cast  out  fear  before  they  can 
love  perfectly." 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  me,  then,  Barbara  ?" 

"  Not  of  you, — of  your  moods  sometimes." 

Bering  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  pulling  his  mous 
tache  soberly. 

"  Men  don't  understand  women,  do  they  ?"  he  asked, 
finally. 

"Perhaps  we  don't  understand  men  any  better," 
admitted  Barbara. 

"  It's  all  this  accursed  civilization,"  he  grumbled  on ; 
"  our  race  is  getting  anaemic.  It  isn't  your  fault ;  you're 
a  fin-du-siede  woman,  and  can't  help  yourself.  I'm  a 
savage  and  ought  to  be  tamed." 

"  If  you  mean  by  fin-du-siede  that  I'm  a  Laodicean 
creature  like  the  woman  in  <•  Notre  Coeur,'  you  are 
very  wrong.  I  seem  to  explain  myself  very  badly.  I 
irritate  you,  and  that  makes  me  very  awkward." 

"  Well,  I  don't  seem  to  do  anything  but  irritate  you" 
returned  Dering.  "  You  make  me  feel  a  colossal  idiot. 
It's  my  fault,  of  course." 

"  I  told  you  I  should  disappoint  you,"  said  Barbara, 
in  a  whisper. 

"  Oh  !"  he  exclaimed,  exasperated  as  usual  after  one 
of  their  jolting  discussions,  "why  do  you  always  hark 
back  to  that  beaten  old  covert  ?  I  am  not  disappointed ; 


80  BARBARA  DURING.. 

I  am  only  trying  to  get  at  your  point  of  view.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  rather  got  on  with  you  before  our 
marriage,  and  now  I  only  seem  to  fuss  you  up." 

Barbara  was  suddenly  convinced  that  she  was  in  the 
wrong, — nothing  but  the  present  moment  seemed  clear 
to  her.  He  was  there,  young,  loving,  bonny.  She 
had  wounded  him.  She  was  his  wife.  He  gave  her 
unstinted  and  impassioned  devotion.  Also  Eunice's 
words  came  back  to  her :  "  I  feel  that  your  husband  has 
a  grande  passion  for  you.  .  .  .  Such  feeling  is  very  rare. 
All  women  don't  win  it."  She  looked  up  at  him  with 
an  exquisite  glow  of  love  in  her  large  eyes  and  opened 
her  arms.  Stooping  a  little,  he  lifted  her  upon  his 
breast. 

"  Is  it  all  right,  Barbara?" 

"  Yes,  my  own." 

"  You  forgive  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Fully,  freely  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  dearest !"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him.  A 
sort  of  touched  quiver  went  over  his  face,  and  then  h© 
bent  it  down  against  hers. 


XIV. 

IN  spite  of  her  suddenly  affectionate  mood  the  night 
before,  Dering  was  conscious,  upon  thinking  matters 
over,  that  Barbara  after  marriage,  compared  with  Bar 
bara  during  their  engagement,  rather  reminded  him  of 
Kosamond's  famous  purple  jar.  He  could  not  explain 
the  apparent  change  in  her  nature  and  character,  and 
,t  never  occurred  to  him  that  certain  changes  in  himself 


BARBARA   DERINQ.  81 

had  anything  to  do  with  it.  He  felt  aggrieved,  misled, 
baffled.  Women  seemed  to  him  impossible  creatures, 
to  whom  the  attraction  of  the  moon  consisted  in  the 
fact  that  its  other  side  remained  a  mystery.  As  for  all 
this  talk  of  soul  and  communion  of  heart  and  spiritu 
ality,  it  might  do  very  well  in  a  convent  or  monastery, 
or  even  between  a  certain  angelic  description  of  min 
ister  and  his  female  parishioners,  but  between  two 
young,  vigorous,  glowing  beings,  it  was  either  a  pose 
or  a  failure.  He  had  a  sore,  angry  feeling  that  Barbara 
looked  down  upon  his  love  for  her  as  something  to  be 
put  up  with,  since  he  was  that  singularly  constituted 
being,  a  man,  and  could  not  help  himself.  He  wondered, 
with  a  fierce  contraction  of  his  heart,  whether,  if  they 
had  a  child,  she  would  not  love  it  far  more  than  she  did 
him,  and  his  feeling  of  secret  contempt  for  the  dead 
Valentine  grew  in  proportion  to  what  he  considered 
Barbara's  unreasonable  and  difficult  humors.  "  What 
a  precious  molly-coddle  he  must  have  been  if  he  sub 
mitted  to  this  sort  of  thing !"  he  reflected  moodily.  "  I 
don't  believe  he  had  any  force  or  fire  in  him."  It 
seemed  to  him  that  his  salamander  was  growing  cool  in 
his  hand, — was  turning  to  a  bit  of  charcoal.  His  man 
ner,  however,  did  not  give  a  him  of  the  resentful  bit 
terness  accumulating  within,  and  Barbara  thought  that 
she  was  acting  up  to  his  most  exacting  demand  in  thus 
keeping  from  him  the  restless  questionings  and  doubts 
which  filled  her  own  mind. 

Another  form  taken  by  his  concealed  irritation  was 
that  of  a  steady  dislike  for  the  Bransbys.  It  was  as 
inevitable  that  he  and  Bransby  should  clash  as  that 
there  should  be  a  sputter  when  ice  and  fire  come  in 
contact.  Mrs.  Bransby,  however,  was  not  so  distasteful 
to  him  personally.  His  objection  to  Barbara's  growing 


82  BARBARA   DERIN&. 

intimacy  with  her  was  that  objection  felt  by  so  many 
men  to  the  confidences  apt  to  be  exchanged  between 
not  entirely  happy  married  women,  and  which  so  fre 
quently  include  the  husbands  in  the  case.  That  Bar 
bara  should  discuss  him,  directly  or  indirectly,  with 
any  one  roused  in  him  a  very  frenzy  of  anger.  Then, 
too,  he  felt  for  Eunice  that  grand  scorn  which  very 
strong  young  things  are  apt  to  feel  for  those  which  are 
paler  and  more  fragile.  He  did  not  comprehend  the 
attitude  of  apparent  agreement  which  she  adopted 
towards  her  husband.  She  seemed  to  him  cowardly  and 
dull,  and  he  wondered  why  Barbara  liked  to  be  with 
her.  Besides,  the  very  fact  that  his  wife  should  care  so 
much  for  another  woman's  society  showed  that  he  was 
not  sufficient  in  his  position  of  husband. 

Miss  Fridiswig  found  him  less  like  Yalentine  day  by 
day,  and  at  last  wrote  him  down  in  her  diary  as  "  an 
exceedingly  rude  young  man,  with  an  unregenerato 
temper  ;"  and  if  he  considered  Barbara  to  be  changed 
by  marriage,  his  aunt-in-law  pronounced  him  to  be 
quite  another  person.  He  was  shortly  freed  from  such 
comment,  however,  as  about  this  time  Miss  Fridis  left 
Rosemary  to  make  her  home  with  her  only  sister. 

One  of  the  most  curious  transformations  which  had 
taken  place  in  him  was  the  growing  desire  to  remodel 
Barbara  into  an  entirely  different  woman.  Traits  that 
had  charmed  him  in  her  as  a  sweetheart  seemed  totally 
out  of  place  in  a  wife.  He  felt  instinctively  that  Bransby 
disapproved  of  her  exuberant  vitality,  and  while  he 
longed  to  thrash  Bransby,  he  told  himself  that  Barbara 
was  too  untrammelled,  both  in  her  opinions  and  in  her 
mode  of  expressing  them.  In  a  word,  he  was  over 
whelmed  by  that  subtle  sense  of  responsibility  in  the 
bride,  which  so  often  prevents  modern  bridegrooms 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  83 

from  being  as  thoroughly  joyous  as  their  position 
might  seem  to  warrant. 

Like  most  of  us,  Dering  possessed  two  distinct 
natures,  and  as  he  had  once  said  to  Barbara  during 
their  first  days  of  acquaintance,  if  his  cousin  had 
been  Valentine  he  was  certainly  Orson.  This  bit 
of  self-accusation  was  true  to  some  extent,  and  the 
conviction  regarding  her  lack  of  love  for  him  which 
from  time  to  time  forced  itself  upon  him  brought  to 
the  surface  all  the  irritability  and  harshness  which  was 
generally  dormant  in  his  really  sunny  nature.  He 
was  bewildered,  nettled,  disgusted,  at  this  change  in 
himself,  but  the  very  fact  of  the  self-control  which  he 
exercised  for  the  most  part  made  his  lapses,  when  they 
did  come,  more  vehement. 

At  one  time  he  told  himself  that  she  did  not  love 
him.  At  another  time  that  she  was  incapable  of  loving 
any  one.  Again,  it  was  a  vague,  dreary  jealousy  of  the 
dead  Yalentine,  whose  ghost  seemed  ever  sliding  in 
between  them.  The  very  fact  of  the  temporary  idle 
ness  in  which  they  were  living  served  to  whet  his 
temper  and  make  him  restless  and  nervous,  for  he  was 
a  man  of  intense  physical  activity,  given  to  all  sorts 
of  athletic  sports,  such  as  polo-playing,  racquets,  ex 
cursions  into  wild  countries  after  big  game,  and  the 
monotony  of  Eosemary  was  beginning  to  pall  upon 
him,  even  in  spite  of  Barbara's  presence.  He  was 
anxious  to  go  to  Melton  for  the  winter,  and  feared  that 
this  suggestion  might  not  meet  with  her  approval, 
although  she  knew  that  he  was,  before  anything,  a 
being  of  active  out-door  life.  His  entire  lack  of  self- 
analysis  and  anything  like  an  appreciation  of  involved 
imaginative  temperaments  was  another  element  of  dis 
cord  between  them. 


84  BARBARA   DERING. 

As  Eunice  had  said,  his  feeling  for  his  wife  was  cer 
tainly  a  "  grande  passion  "  and  the  doubt  of  her  love  for 
him  drove  him  at  times  to  desperation.  Once  or  twice 
when  alone  in  his  own  room  or  out  on  horseback  hot, 
scalding  drops  had  been  wrung  from  him  by  what  he 
considered  her  almost  cold-hearted  course  towards  him. 
As  for  tenderness,  he  regarded  it  as  the  accompaniment 
to  weak  and  sluggish  natures,  and  despised  it  accord 
ingly.  Barbara  did  not  imagine  what  he  suffered,  and, 
in  her  turn,  doubted  the  quality  of  his  love  for  her.  She 
sometimes  thought  that  she  had  worn  out  his  patience 
by  her  unlucky  habit  of  introspection,  and  made  daily 
resolutions  as  to  reserve  and  caution  in  her  talks  with 
him,  which  were,  however,  not  always  kept  unbroken. 

A  man  who  has  had  very  little  experience  of  gentle 
women  buys  very  dearly  his  knowledge  of  his  wife. 
JDering  was  fond  of  saying  that  he  was  no  carpet- 
knight,  and  his  lack  of  all  effeminacy  was  very  admira 
ble,  but  there  is  a  certain  feminine  quality  without 
which  the  character  of  no  man  is  wholly  lovable,  and 
the  possession  of  which  does  not  signify  weakness  but 
strength.  Dering  was  male  to  the  core.  His  very  re 
ligion  had  a  sort  of  fierceness  in  it.  His  love  of  life 
included  a  fiery  criticism  of  its  shortcomings, — even 
coarseness  to  him  seemed  pardonable  as  a  sort  of  exu 
berant  vitality.  He  loved  all  animals  and  yet  was  an 
ardent  sportsman,  and  could  shoot  his  ailing  dogs  and 
horses  when  occasion  demanded. 

He  had  more  respect  for  a  daring  criminal  than  for 
a  weak  saint.  The  warlike  and  revengeful  God  of  the 
Jews  was  more  to  his  taste  than  the  Messiah,  although, 
in  accordance  with  a  strange  and  contradictory  con 
ventionality,  he  was  apparently  the  most  orthodox  of 
Christians. 


BARBARA   D BRING.  85 

Fierce,  bright,  conquering  women  were  his  ideals. 
A  virtuous  Cleopatra  seemed  to  him  the  perfection  of 
womanhood.  He  saw  nature  actual  and  mental  in 
crude,  brilliant  colors,  unmodified  by  any  half-tones. 
One  phase  of  Barbara's  character  had  captivated  him, 
and  he  thought  he  knew  the  entire  woman.  Marriage 
developed  different  and  more  complicated  aspects  of  dis 
position,  and  he  was  baffled,  indignant.  Life  for  him 
was  divided  into  the  well-defined  and  charming  emo 
tions,  first,  that  of  keen  delight ;  second,  that  of 
practical  enjoyment.  That  his  kisses  should  fail  to 
thrill  the  woman  he  loved  because  his  mood  did  not 
harmonize  with  hers  would  have  seemed  to  him  a 
diverting  absurdity.  That  to  be  called  "a  tigress" 
and  roughly  embraced  when  her  whole  being  craved 
gentleness  and  consideration,  should  stir  in  her  profound 
depths  of  opposition,  he  would  have  regarded  as  impos 
sible.  His  nature  was  of  so  savage  a  vitality  that  he 
preferred  the  cruelest  exuberance  of  feeling  to  its 
sweetest  restraint. 

Physical  suffering,  except  in  its  forms  of  positive 
anguish,  did  not  appeal  to  him.  The  lassitude  of  lesser 
ailments  only  galled  him,  and  produced  an  assured  be 
lief  that  they  were  the  result  of  self-indulgence  and 
could  be  dispelled  by  a  brisk  drive  or  walk.  Eeligious 
questioning  found  in  him  only  a  fierce  intolerance.  He 
was  quick  and  harsh  in  his  judgments,  especially  of 
women,  but  only  in  regard  to  faults  of  hypocrisy,  false 
ness,  self-righteousness :  with  an  unexpected  and  beau 
tiful  tenderness,  the  sins  of  frailty  he  always  pardoned. 
He  was  generous  to  excess,  and  his  generosity  was  not 
restricted  to  material  matters.  His  sympathy  went 
out  to  the  whole  world.  He  longed  to  lead  men  to  a 
higher  platform, — to  widen  their  views,  their  hopes, 

8 


86  BARBARA   DERING. 

their  ambitions.  In  some  respects  he  was  a  singularly 
reserved  man.  It  was  strange  how  little  he  spoke  of 
himself  and  his  feelings,  when  his  whole  being  was 
sometimes  concentrated  for  days  in  the  efforts  to  dis 
cover  some  vent  for  his  powerful  energies.  He  had 
never  been  really  unconditionally  in  love  until  he  saw 
Barbara.  The  two  or  three  sentiments  in  which  he 
had  before  indulged  were  all  backed  by  excellent 
reasons,  and  coldly  analyzed  as  they  progressed  until 
they  had  finally  ended  in  ennui.  His  code  of  ethics 
had  been  that  of  most  club-men,  and  formulated  would 
have  run  something  in  this  way:  "Have  your  fling  as 
a  young  fellow.  Do  everything  that  amuses  you,  so 
long  as  you  live  up  to  the  social  idea  of  a  gentleman 
and  don't  wrong  any  virtuous  woman."  He  added  one 
clause,  however:  "Be  true  to  your  wife  after  mar 
riage." 

Before  his  marriage  with  Barbara,  Bering  had  been 
positive  of  many  things  which  now  appeared  far  less 
certain.  He  had  often  told  himself  that  were  he  to 
make  a  mistake  and  find  himself  bound  to  a  cold,  pru 
dish,  unloving  woman,  he  would  leave  her  without  a 
qualm  and  make  a  new  life  for  himself  in  some  other 
part  of  the  world.  But  in  all  his  ideas  of  life  and 
marriage  he  had  never  accepted  genuine,  passionate 
love  as  a  factor,  and  now  its  vast  glare  had  blotted  out 
all  lesser  twinklings,  while  its  rays,  concentrated  in  the 
burning-glass  of  present  feeling,  shrivelled  the  flimsy 
theories  upon  which  they  struck,  as  actual  rays  wither 
bits  of  paper. 

Not  that  he  considered  Barbara  cold  or  prudish.  She 
had  certainly  been  rather  cold  to  him  for  some  time, 
but  he  felt  sure  that  it  was  not  a  real  characteristic  of 
her  nature,  and  that  in  reality  she  was  the  glow- 


BARBARA  DERING.  87 

ing  creature  that  he  had  thought  her  from  the  first. 
It  was  this  very  conviction  that  frenzied  him.  In  spite 
of  her  care,  her  affectionate  ways,  her  pretty  moods  of 
half-childish  coaxing  and  love-making,  Dering  felt  that 
he  did  not  touch  the  central  spring  of  her  nature. 
There  was  some  way  in  which  he  failed.  Some  way  in 
which  she  tacitly  criticised  him,  and,  as  he  had  once  said 
in  a  bitter  mood,  compared  him  to  some  secret  standard 
which  he  failed  to  reach. 

The  old  abandon  had  gone  from  her  voice  and  eyes. 
He  was  sometimes  conscious,  with  a  withering  at  his 
heart,  that  she  drew  away  from  his  kisses  and  then  re 
turned  them,  all  the  more  eagerly,  to  make  up  for  the 
involuntary  motion. 

She  had  at  times  moods  of  deep  despondency  which 
jarred  upon  him  inexpressibly.  Again,  she  would  wan 
der  off  into  the  winter  woods  alone  and  be  gone  for 
hours,  with  only  her  deerhound  and  the  Angora  kitten, 
which  often  followed  her  on  her  long  walks  in  spite 
of  ice  and  mud.  On  these  occasions  Dering  accepted 
with  a  dogged  bitterness  his  position  of  unwanted  hus 
band,  and  never  attempted  to  find  her  or  to  meet  her 
on  her  return.  Painful  scenes  constantly  took  place 
between  them,  in  which  the  blame  was  often  on  both 
sides.  She  was  not  of  a  yielding  or  submissive  nature, 
however,  and  the  two  strong  wills  tested  each  other  in 
fierce  tussles,  which  very  frequently  failed  to  advance 
the  supremacy  of  either.  In  the  intervals  between 
such  encounters  these  singular  beings  often  spent  days 
of  gay  companionship,  during  which  they  would  both 
fancy  that  the  cruel  scenes  of  the  past  could  never  be 
renewed. 


88  BARBARA  BERING. 


XY. 

GODFREY  BRANSBY  was  one  of  those  men  who,  when 
they  marry  a  woman,  decide  that  she  must  find  in  her 
husband  the  end  and  fulfilment  of  every  desire.  His 
egotism  was  of  the  Oriental  sort,  which  requires  that 
whatever  charm  the  beloved  may  possess  it  must  be 
exercised  only  for  the  lover,  the  owner.  Eunice  had  a 
sweet  contralto  voice ;  but  since  her  marriage  she  had 
only  sung  for  Bransby,  except  on  certain  rare  occasions 
when  he  had  allowed  her  to  exercise  her  talent  for  the 
benefit  of  the  choir  in  his  native  parish.  He  did  not 
entirely  approve  of  her  singing  her  babies  to  sleep, 
but  so  long  as  she  chose  hymns  for  lullabies  made  no 
positive  objection.  On  most  points  of  domestic  freedom 
he  was  very  rigid.  He  considered  low-necked  gowns 
immoral,  no  matter  how  modestly  they  were  cut,  and 
although  Eunice  had  charming  round  arms  and  shoul 
ders  like  rose-petals,  her  evening-dresses  were  always 
made  with  the  severity  of  a  bride's,  up  almost  to  the 
lobes  of  her  small  ears  and  close  about  the  wrists.  He 
permitted  no  artificial  curling  of  her  hair.  The  trim 
ming  of  her  pretty  oval  nails  was  superintended  con 
scientiously,  and  she  was  made  to  cut  them  in  a  natural 
curve,  instead  of  the  sharp  points  which  were  then 
in  vogue.  Ear-rings  were  forbidden.  Open-work  silk 
stockings  pronounced  indecent  on  account  of  the  little 
glimmer  of  flesh  which  showed  through  the  fine  meshes ; 
also  every  very  close-fitting  style  of  corsage. 

Mentally,  his  supervision  was,  if  anything,  more  strict. 
Eunice  was  requested  not  to  read  certain  novels,  be- 


BARBARA  DERING.  89 

ginning  with  "The  Heart  of  Midlothian,"  "Adam 
Bede,"  and  "Jane  Eyre,"  and  ending  with  "  La  Morte" 
and"  Eobert  Elsmere."  Even  some  of  Tennyson's 
poems  were  tabooed,  such  as  "  Fatima,"  "  Launcelot  and 
Guinevere,"  "Love  and  Duty."  Browning  was  only 
permitted  in  selections,  while  the  only  copy  of  Walt 
Whitman  which  ever  found  its  way  into  the  house  was 
burned  leaf  by  leaf,  having  been  dismembered  with  the 
tongs  to  prevent  the  contamination  of  direct  contact. 
The  word  "  passion"  and  the  state  of  mind  which  it  ex 
pressed  he  considered  equally  coarse  and  undesirable. 
A  wife,  he  had  said,  should  be  a  delicate  echo,  and  re 
spond  only  when  her  husband  had  spoken.  He  con 
sidered  that  a  glacial  demeanor  was  necessary  to  proper 
respect  in  his  attitude  towards  the  woman  who  bore 
his  name.  His  modes  of  expressing  his  affection  for 
her  were  automatic  and  his  words  of  endearment  pre 
cise  and  bloodless. 

After  being  thrown  with  Bransby  for  a  while,  one  felt 
sure  that  had  he  been  allowed  an  interview  with  Prov 
idence  he  would  have  suggested  certain  modifications 
in  the  method  of  existence,  proposing  in  definite  and 
well-considered  terms  a  new  plan  of  creation  in  which 
bodies  would  be  made  out  of  some  non-sensitive  material 
and  nature  reduced  to  a  calm  propriety.  Eunice  was 
made  to  understand  frequently  in  many  indirect  ways 
that  Bransby  had  asked  her  to  become  his  wife  from 
necessity  rather  than  choice,  and  that,  had  the  world 
permitted  such  a  relationship,  he  would  greatly  have 
preferred  their  tie  to  be  that  of  a  fond  brother  and 
sister.  His  children  he  seemed  to  regard  with  chill 
philosophy  as  the  outgrowth  of  a  material  and  mis 
taken  system  on  the  part  of  nature,  and  his  nearest 
approach  to  any  paternal  interest  had  been  when,  at 

8* 


90  BARBARA   DERING. 

Winifred's  birth,  he  had  expressed  his  regret  that  the 
child  was  not  a  boy. 

In  appearance  he  was  small,  slight,  blond,  with  ex 
quisitely  modelled  hands  and  feet.  His  hair  was  of  a 
straight,  pale  brown,  his  eyes  the  same  color.  He  wore 
a  short,  pointed  beard,which  was  here  and  there  streaked 
with  gray,  and  his  lips  were  colorless,  but  well-shaped. 

When  he  had  first  met  Eunice  Denison  she  had 
been  a  girl  of  eighteen,  shy,  reserved,  romantic,  and 
full  of  a  pure  and  hidden  fire.  Bransby  had  seemed 
to  her  the  ideal  of  all  that  was  princely  and  soul-satis 
fying.  As  a  lover,  his  somewhat  metallic  manner  had 
appeared  only  a  refined  self-control.  Her  own  intense 
emotion  had  filled  his  touch  with  a  magnetism  which  it 
never  had,  and  when  his  lips  touched  hers  in  the  first 
kiss  her  virginal  nature  thrilled  to  its  very  centre  by 
the  idea  of  self-surrender  rather  than  by  any  actual 
contact,  did  not  stop  to  demand  if  the  caress  were 
warm  or  cold.  JSTow,  after  ten  years  of  marriage,  she 
had  learned  to  look  upon  her  own  former  innocent  ex 
uberance  of  love  as  something  unrefined,  unwomanly, 
undesirable, — to  conquer  every  natural,  healthy  im 
pulse  of  aifection,  to  force  into  silence  the  cravings  of 
her  keen  and  delicate  nature.  Her  husband's  kisses 
were  placed  upon  her  cheek  or  forehead  ;  when  he  took 
her  hand,  it  was  in  a  limp  and  almost  deprecatory  clasp. 
He  repelled  all  confidences  of  an  emotional  or  intro 
spective  nature,  and  was  annoyed  if  on  his  birthday  or 
at  Christmas  any  especial  souvenir  was  prepared  for 
him  by  Eunice.  He  considered  the  custom  childish 
and  overstrained.  It  was  absurd,  he  said,  to  expect  a 
rational  creature,  at  a  stated  time,  to  be  in  a  mood  either 
to  receive  or  bestow  certain  gifts.  Besides,  it  suggested 
an  insufficiency  in  their  surroundings  which  was  dis- 


BARBARA   DERINO.  91 

tasteful  to  him.  If  his  wife  desired  anything  she  had 
only  to  tell  him  of  that  desire.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  that  she  lacked.  Jewels  he  detested,  with  the 
exception  of  pearls,  and  Eunice  had  several  magnificent 
strings  of  the  moony  globules.  With  jewels  out  of  the 
question,  nothing  occurred  to  him  that  would  make  an 
appropriate  present.  His  children  did  not  love  him 
in  the  least,  and  were  very  candid  in  their  admission 
of  this  fact  to  each  other,  but  never  confided  it  to 
their  mother,  although  she  shared  every  other  thought 
of  their  inmost  souls,  because,  as  Win  expressed  it, 
"Mammas  are  generally  fond  of  papas,  even  when 
they're  rather  horrid,  and  it  might  hurt  her  to  know 
we  quite  abominate  him."  Lois  agreed  that  this  was  a 
very  wise  and  rational  conclusion,  and  so  their  most 
fervid  dislike  of  their  father  was  only  expressed  by  the 
demurest  silence. 

Bransby's  views  on  religion  were  also  very  narrow  and 
severe.  On  Sunday  his  wife  and  daughters  were  re 
quired  to  go  to  church  twice,  in  all  sorts  of  weather, 
while  pastimes  of  every  kind  and  the  reading  of  any 
but  religious  books  was  forbidden.  He  believed  in  a 
hell  of  actual  flame,  in  predestination,  and  that  all 
persons  who  had  once  unworthily  partaken  of  the  Holy 
Communion  had  eaten  and  drunk  their  own  damnation, 
and  were  without  hope  of  future  salvation.  At  least 
these  were  some  of  the  theories  which  Bransby  be 
lieved  that  he  believed ;  his  whole  inner  man  was  such 
a  tangled  web  of  artificialities  and  acquired  opinions 
that  it  was  difficult  to  decide  which  was  the  original 
creature  and  which  the  stuff  of  created  personality. 

As  for  his  dislike  of  Barbara,  it  increased  each  time 
that  they  were  thrown  together.  There  was  some 
thing  in  her  keen  presence  which  accentuated  his 


92  BARBARA  DERING. 

own  incapacity  for  feeling  of  any  kind,  and  which 
caused  him  to  experience  a  sensation  resembling  that 
of  an  ill-humored  and  gouty  person  who  is  forced  to 
watch  the  blithe  movements  of  a  happy  child.  In 
addition  to  this  her  very  existence  was  a  contradiction 
of  all  his  theories  about  the  submissive  attitude  which 
was  required  of  woman  in  the  married  relation.  Bar 
bara  expressed  her  own  views  fully  on  all  subjects, 
often  took  the  lead  in  conversation,  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  disagree  with  her  husband  openly  and  in  the  frankest 
manner.  She  had  her  own  ideas  on  the  position  of 
wives,  the  education  of  children,  the  race  question,  the 
future  of  women,  and  the  attributes  of  the  Diety.  She 
had  said  on  one  occasion  that  she  considered  women 
in  many  respects  the  superiors  of  men,  and  to  verify 
her  statement  had  quoted  Goethe's  words  : 

"  The  woman  soul  leads  us  upward  and  on." 

She  had  said  that  she  thought  the  clause  "  Serve  and 
obey"  should  be  struck  from  the  marriage  service, — 
that  it  was  a  formula  of  slavery,  not  the  proud  dec 
laration  of  a  willing  and  equal  comradeship.  She  had 
even  stated  that  she  thought  it  wrong  to  require  two 
people  to  swear  by  the  most  solemn  oaths  to  love  each 
other  until  death  did  them  part,  since  love  was  con 
trollable  only  in  a  negative  sense,  and  could  not  be 
compelled  into  being ;  that  if  it  once  ceased  to  exist 
there  was  no  power  which  had  ever  been  known  to 
resurrect  it,  whether  by  command  or  exhortation. 

Bransby,  when  in  her  presence,  felt  himself  dom 
inated  by  a  more  vigorous  individuality,  and  was  un 
pleasantly  conscious  that  her  clear  eyes  pierced  through 
the  flimsy  veil  of  self-important  reserve  with  which 
he  had  rendered  mysterious  his  philosophy  of  domestic 


BARBARA  DERING.  93 

existence,  much  after  the  fashion  in  which  sheets  of 
gauze  are  lowered  between  the  audience  and  the  ghost 
in  clever  dramatic  performances. 

His  aversion  to  her  reached  its  height  one  morning 
when,  during  Eunice's  absence,  he  opened  a  note  from 
Barbara  to  her,  marked  by  the  word  "Immediate," 
strongly  underscored. 

"DEAREST,"  Barbara  had  written, — "Can  you  come 
to  me?  I  need  you  desperately.  I  need  your  wise, 
quiet  judgment.  I  am  very,  very  wretched, — more  so 
than  I  should  dare  put  into  words.  I  seem  to  have 
come  to  the  end  of  the  world  and  to  be  gazing  into 
gulfs  of  whirling  blackness.  Oh,  you  see  how  I  exag 
gerate  even  now  when  I  do  not  wish  to  do  so  f  My 
heart  feels  like  a  ball  of  red-hot  metal  in  my  breast. 
I  long,  I  almost  pray  for  tears,  but  they  will  not  come. 
We  have  grown  so  close  during  the  last  weeks  that  I 
seem  to  feel  your  dear  heart  beating  against  mine. 
I  trust  you.  I  believe  in  you.  I  honor  you.  I  have 
always  dreamed  of  a  perfect  friendship  with  some 
woman,  and  in  you  I  have  found  all  that  I  could  ask. 
I  am  so  humble.  You  shall  scold  me  as  though  I  were 
a  very  child,  like  dear  Win  or  Lois.  I  will  do  what 
you  say,  Eunice  darling,  only  come  and  help  me.  I 
know  you  will  come.  I  know  you  will  let  nothing 
keep  you,  and  I  pray  that  I  may  not  have  to  wait  long 
for  you. 

Your  BARBARA." 


94  BARBARA  DERING. 


XVI. 

WHEN  Eunice  returned  from  her  ride  Bransby  met 
her  in  the  hall  with  Barbara's  note  in  his  hand.  *She 
unwound  her  long  veil  of  gray  gauze  while  he  spoke 
to  her,  wondering  at  the  look  of  pale  concentration  on 
his  face.  "  Here  is  a  note,  Eunice,  which  was  sent  to 
you  by  Mrs.  Dering  a  few  moments  after  you  left.  I. 
could  not,  of  course,  have  had  any  idea  of  the  frenzied 
and  personal  nature  of  its  contents.  I  must  say  that 
it  adds  to  my  unfavorable  opinion  of  Mrs.  Dering.  It 
is  exaggerated,  morbid,  overstrained, — I  might  even 
say,  indelicate.  It  is  unpleasant  to  me  to  think  of 
your  having  with  this  woman  an  intimacy  such  as 
she  alludes  to.  It  is  also  intensely  disagreeable  to  me 
to  have  her  address  you  in  violent  terms  of  endearment 
such  as  I  have  never  permitted  myself  to  use.  In  a 
word,  I  hope  that  when  you  answer  this  unrestrained 
and  unfeminine  effusion  you  will  find  some  dignified 
and  lady-like  method  of  expressing  your  disapproval 
to  the  writer,  and  of  telling  her,  at  the  same  time,  that 
you  will  be  unable  to  call  on  her  to-day." 

During  this  speech  Eunice  stood  very  quiet  by  one 
of  the  broad  hall-windows,  her  riding-crop  bent  across 
her  black  skirt,  the  outline  of  her  cheek  traced  airily 
under  a  furze  of  goldish  strands.  Once  or  twice  the 
blood  had  streamed  into  her  face  even  to  her  clear 
temples.  When  her  husband  finished  speaking,  she 
held  out  her  hand  before  answering  him,  as  though 
to  receive  her  note. 

Bransby  gave  it  to  her  in  the  envelope.      "I  will 


BARBARA  DERING.  95 

wait  for  you  to  read  it,"  he  said.  '  You  can  then 
judge  for  yourself  whether  I  am  justified  in  my  opin 
ion." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  took  rather  long  to  master 
its  contents.  "  I  presume,  of  course,  that  you  agree 
with  me  ?"  he  said  finally. 

There  was  a  slight  pause;  Eunice  felt  her  heart 
beating  quickly.  She  had  never  before  thought  it 
worth  while  to  oppose  her  opinion  to  that  of  her  hus 
band.  She  now  said,  speaking  rather  slowly,  "2s"o,  I 
do  not  agree  with  you,  Godfrey.  I  am  sure  you  don't 
understand  Barbara.  Then,  too,  you  must  remember 
that  this  note  was  not  meant  for  you  to  see.  I  am 
very  sorry  that  you  should  have  chanced  to  read  it." 

Bransby  could  not  believe  that  he  had  grasped  her 
exact  meaning.  "  Do  you  intend  to  say  that  you  en 
dorse  those  extravagant,  unrefined  ravings  which  you 
hold  in  your  hand  ?"  he  demanded  finally. 

"  I  think  that  Barbara  has  a  passionate,  emotional 
nature,  and  that  she  has  written  to  me  under  the  press 
ure  of  some  great  pain,"  answered  Eunice.  "  There 
is  nothing  in  her  words  that  strikes  me  as  unre 
fined." 

"Does  this  mean  that  you  intend  opposing  me  in 
the  matter  and  continuing  your  friendship  with  Mrs. 
Dering?"  asked  Bransby,  coldly. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  oppose  you  in  anything,  God 
frey.  I  hope  that  you  do  not  think  me  so  utterly 
lacking  in  character  and  principle  as  to  be  contaminated 
by  Barbara  Dering,  even  if  she  were  all  that  you 
think  her,  and  I  hope  that  you  will  not  absolutely 
forbid  my  answering  the  cry  of  a  fellow-creature 
who  is  in  such  desperate  straits." 

"  I   am  not  a  petty  tyrant,"  said  Bransby,  stiffly. 


96  BARBARA   DERING. 

"  If  my  wishes  are  not  enough  in  such  a  case,  I  should 
despise  myself  for  resorting  to  commands." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  answered  Eunice,  with  a  certain 
shy  firmness,  "  for  I  should  have  felt  obliged  to  go  in 
any  case.  The  promises  of  friendship  seem  as  sacred 
as  oaths  to  me." 

"  Yes,  as  sacred  as  your  marriage  vows  apparently," 
said  Bransby,  crimsoning.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
openly  that  you  would  disobey  me  in  order  to  keep 
some  sentimental  agreement  made  with  this  headstrong 
woman  ?" 

"I  promised  to  honor  you  when  I  promised  to 
obey,"  said  Eunice,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Could  I  honor 
you  if,  just  in  order  to  show  your  authority,  you  were 
to  try  to  make  me  cruel  to  some  one  of  whom  I  am 
very  fond?" 

"  Upon  my  word,"  sneered  Bransby,  "  I  see  the  effect 
of  her  untrammelled  teachings  upon  you  already.  You 
make  an  apt  pupil,  my  dear  Eunice.  I  had  never 
thought  to  hear  my  wife,  one  whom  I  thought  the 
quintessence  of  gentlewomanly  refinement,  treat  me  to 
a  display  of  the  vulgar,  modern  ideas  on  the  sacred 
subject  of  matrimony." 

Eunice  lifted  to  his  her  clear  blue  eyes.  "Don't 
say  such  things  to  me,  Godfrey.  It  is  not  just.  I  am 
sure  that  a  poor  friend  could  only  make  a  poor  wife. 
I  would  not  be  human  if  I  could  listen  in  coldness  to 
this  prayer  for  help.  I  must  go  to  her,  Godfrey,  and 
at  once ;  I  hope  you  won't  make  it  hard  for  me." 

"  I  shall  leave  you  entirely  to  the  dictates  of  your 
own  conscience,"  said  Bransby,  pompously,  moving  off 
with  measured  steps.  In  reality,  he  was  physically 
dizzy  with  the  sudden  violent  anger  which  had  grasped 
him,  when  he  realized  that  the  docile  creature  of  ten 


BARBARA   BERING.  97 

years'  submission  had  turned  suddenly  and  opposed 
her  will  to  his.  He  was  too  bewildered  to  think  of 
any  immediate  means  of  coercion,  but  his  whole  slug 
gish  obstinacy  was  hardening  itself  into  a  barrier  to 
be  placed  between  Eunice  and  the  accomplishment  of 
her  desires. 

Eunice,  in  the  mean  time,  not  waiting  to  change  her 
habit,  had  another  horse  saddled,  and  rode  off  at  once 
to  Rosemary,  where  Martha  Ellen  met  her  at  the  door 
and  led  her  to  Barbara's  room. 

The  two  women  stood  gazing  at  each  other  for  a 
moment,  very  pale,  and  then  Eunice  put  out  her  arms 
and  drew  Barbara  to  her,  holding  her  fast  and  pressing 
her  head  against  her  breast,  as  she  pressed  the  heads 
of  her  children  when  they  were  in  trouble.  That 
sentence  about  Lois  and  Win  had  gone  to  her  heart's 
core.  Barbara  did  not  sob  or  utter  any  word;  she 
only  clung  fast  to  Eunice,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
long-drawn  shudder  shook  her  whole  body. 

At  last  she  said,  without  lifting  her  face,  "  I  knew 
you  would  come." 

Eunice  did  not  answer,  but  pressed  her  lips  with  a 
sort  of  eagerness  on  the  bent  head.  Then  she  led 
Barbara  to  a  sofa  and  made  her  lie  down,  kneeling 
beside  her  still,  with  her  arms  about  her  neck. 

"  Oh,  Barbara,"  she  whispered  after  a  while,  "  can't 
you  tell  me  what  it  is,  dear?  Your  eyes  hurt  me ;  they 
are  so  full  of  pain." 

"  I  am  almost  afraid  to  speak,"  said  Barbara,  in  a 
whisper ;  "  I  don't  seem  able  to  think  clearly.  There 
is  only  one  thing  which  rings  in  my  head, — something 
about  'good  the  final  goal  of  ill.'  Then  I  want  more 
than  anything  to  do  what  is  noble  and  brave, — what  is 
my  duty.  I  don't  want  to  consider  myself.  Of  course 
*  g  9 


98  BARBARA  DERING. 

one  can  no  more  help  thinking  of  one's  self  under  the 
stabs  of  such  agony  than  one  could  help  bleeding  from 
a  sword-thrust." 

"But  what  is  it,  dearest?  Can't  you  tell  me?  It 
would  ease  your  poor  heart.  You  know  I  would  not 
criticise, — wouldn't  quote  texts  or  axioms  to  you." 

"  No,  no,  indeed  !  you  are  the  very  soul  of  sympathy. 
I  could  never  have  sent  for  you  unless  I  had  known 
that.  And  I  want  to  speak,  only  I  can't  seem  to  think 
connectedly.  And  then,  too,  I  don't  want  to  say 
more  than  is  right, — more  than  I  should  say.  Oh, 
Eunice,  I  want  to  say  the  truth,  the  truth,  the  truth ! 
But  how  am  I  to  know  that  I  ought  to  say  it  ?" 

"  You  can  be  sure  of  one  thing,  Barbara,  dearest :  I 
shall  not  think  hard  thoughts  of  any  one ;  life  is  too 
sorrowful  for  us  all.  I  never  judge,  Barbara.  When 
people  do  things  that  seem  wrong  or  mistaken  to  me,  I 
always  say  to  myself,  '  You  cannot  know  what  tempta 
tion  they  had,  what  struggles  they  endured  before 
yielding.'  Nearly  every  life  seems  to  me  to  be  the 
grave  of  some  great  renunciation." 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear !  you  must  have  been  very 
unhappy  yourself  to  have  had  such  thoughts." 

"  Yes,  I  have  had  sorrows.  Perhaps  they  would  not 
seem  great  to  other  people,  but  I  have  found  them 
sufficient.  I  think  our  trials  are  generally  those  that 
touch  our  most  sensitive  points.  You  know  some 
people  find  a  burn  far  harder  to  bear  than  a  cut  with  a 
knife.  It  would  be  foolish  for  one  who  did  not  think 
burning  intolerable  to  say  of  some  one  else  who  was 
shrieking  and  writhing  under  such  a  wound,  l  How 
cowardly!  /have  been  burnt;  /did  not  make  such  an 
ado." 

"Dearest    Eunice,"   said   Barbara,   "we   both   find 


BARBARA  DERI  NO.  99 

burning  an  anguish,  and  we  have  both  been  terribly 
burnt.  Isn't  it  true  ?" 

Eunice  pressed  her  cheek  to  Barbara's,  but  said 
nothing.  After  a  moment  Barbara  went  on,  speaking 
very  slowly, — 

"You  never  knew  my — my — the  man  I  first  mar 
ried,  did  you  ?  "Well, — I — I  loved  him  with  my  whole 
being, — mind,  soul,  body.  Oh,  how  strange  it  seems 
to  be  lying  here  in  this  room  and  saying  such  words 
calmly !" 

She  felt  Eunice's  arms  tighten  about  her  and  heard 
her  draw  a  deep,  catching  breath.  "  And — and — I 

loved  the  man  who  is — who  is Oh,  Eunice !  I 

do  love  Jock!" 

"My  dear  one,  I  know  you  do." 

"  I  even  thought  I  loved  him  more.  He  seemed 
to  me  stronger,  more  powerful,  more  splendid.  Some 
wonderful  vitality  about  him  dazzled  me.  I  was  be 
wildered.  I  had  great  struggles,  but,  in  the  end,  he 
made  my — the — the  other,  seem  pale,  vague.  Even 
then  I  suffered  horribly.  I  was  tormented  by  dreadful 
thoughts.  I  was  like  a  mad  woman.  I  was  so  cruel. 
I  thought  only  of  myself.  And  I  sent  him  away." 

"  My  poor  dear,"  whispered  Eunice.  "  Wait  a  little 
while.  You  are  trembling  so." 

"  No,  darling :  let  me  finish.  I  must  say  it  all  out 
to  you  now.  Where  was  I  ?  Ah !  I  sent  him  away. 
And  then  how  lonely  I  was,  how  wretched  for  two 
years !  I  went  over  and  over  my^cruelty  and  selfishness, 
until  I  seemed  the  most  wayward,  undisciplined,  hopeless 
creature  on  earth.  I  longed  to  atone  for  my  cruelty, 
and  yet  I  was  afraid.  I  felt  that  I  loved  him,  and 
yet  I  was  afraid  to  call  it  love.  And  then,  all  of 
a  sudden,  one  day,  he  came  back.  I  scarcely  know 


100  BARBARA  DERING. 

how  I  felt  at  first.  His  old  power  over  me  returned, 
but  I  was  afraid.  Something  about  him  frightened 
me.  I  felt  that  he  could  be  very  cruel.  I  had  suf 
fered  so  much.  I  shrank  from  more  pain.  But  he 
was  lovely.  So  kind,  so  gentle,  so  full  of  care  for 
me.  Oh,  Eunice,  I  was  a  coward !  I  was  so  sad,  so 
lonely !  This  love  came  to  me  like  a  warm  cloak  to 
one  who  is  slowly  freezing  out  in  the  dark.  There  was 
no  one  to  tell  me  that  we  can  love  our  highest  loves 
but  once — that  the  truest  strength  in  a  man  is  always 
gentle — that  the  noblest  men  are  womanly  too,  just 
as  the  noblest  women  are  manly.  Because  he  mastered 
me,  dominated  me,  I  thought  he  was  greater  than — 
than  the  one  I  first  loved.  And  so — I  married  him." 
She  paused,  and  Eunice  shivered.  Somehow  this  last 
sentence  fell  as  awfully  on  her  ear  as  the  deep  sound 
of  the  first  clod  that  strikes  a  lowered  coffin. 

"  I  married  him,"  went  on  Barbara,  after  a  few 
moments.  "And  then — and  then "  She  stam 
mered  and  hid  her  face  with  her  hands.  Suddenly 
she  took  them  away.  "  Oh,  Eunice,"  she  whispered, 
"  how  much  easier  it  is  to  bear  the  loss  of  a  great  joy 
than  the  presence  of  a  galling  burden !  Do  all  women 
have  to  learn  what  real  love  is,  I  wonder,  by  finding  out 
its  opposite?  Heart-thirst  is  so  much  more  terrible 
than  heart-hunger." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  yes,  yes!"  said  Eunice,  with  a  sort 
of  sob. 

"Sometimes,"  Barbara  hurried  on, — "sometimes  it 
seems  as  if  I  must  go  mad ;  as  if  I  could  not  bear  it 
at  all, — the  terrible  bewilderment  of  different  feelings 
tearing  and  tugging  at  each  other.  I  find  myself  think 
ing  of  Yal,  longing  for  him.  And  then  I  come  to  my 
self  with  a  start  of  terror,  I  remember  that  I  have  for- 


BARBARA   DERING.  101 

felted  my  right  to  think  of  him.  Do  you  understand 
the  full  horror  of  that  thought  ?  Do  you  ?  Do  you  ? 
If  I  had  not  loved  him  as  a  wife  should  love  it  would 
be  different ;  but  I  did.  I  loved  him  perfectly  in  every 
way.  He  seemed  to  know  my  thoughts  before  I  spoke, 
as  I  knew  his.  When  we  had  been  silent  we  used 
nearly  always  to  begin  speaking  of  the  same  subject. 
He  was  always  gentle.  I  suppose  that  Jock  would 
have  thought  him  very  weak.  I  try  to  go  to  my  Bible 
for  comfort,  and  I  see  such  terrible  things.  This 
morning  I  came  upon  what  Christ  said  to  the  woman 
who  had  had  five  husbands.  There  can  never  be  but 
one  real  holy  marriage.  I  cannot  think  how  I  was  so 
foolish,  so  blind,  as  to  think  that  after  such  a  perfect 
union  as  mine  I  could  find  another.  But  I  did  not 
send  for  you  to  complain.  What  I  want  is  to  know 
my  duty  and  then  to  try  to  do  it.  It  is  not  any  social 
law  that  will  keep  me  to  this  bond  which  I  have  taken 
upon  myself.  I  would  never  care  for  any  merely  con 
ventional  restraint.  What  holds  me  is  the  fact  of 
Jock's  love  for  me.  I  will  never  do  anything  to  bring 
myself  peace  at  the  price  of  a  fellow-creature's  misery. 
Besides,  I  do  love  him, — dearly,  dearly.  It  is  only  the 
awful  suddenness  of  it.  He  can  be  so  horribly  cruel. 
My  soul  cowers  sometimes  under  his  words  like  a  dog 
that  has  been  often  beaten.  Sometimes  he  seems  to 
hate  me,  to  be  possessed  of  some  evil  spirit." 

"  Perhaps  he  feels  instinctively  that  you  do  not  love 
him  as  you  have  loved  another,"  said  Eunice  in  a  low 
voice.  "That  would  madden  a  passionate,  imperious 
nature.  Perhaps  he  thinks  you  cold  to  him."  . 

"But  I  am  only  cold  to  him  after  some  dreadful 
scene.  Then  I  cannot  help  it.  How  could  one  re 
spond  to  passionate  love  just  after  passionate  abuse? 

9* 


102  BARBARA   DERING. 

I  do  try,  but  it  is  like   the   reflection  of  a  torch   in 
ice." 

"I  know  how  hard — how  hard  it  is,"  said  Eunice. 
"  Sometimes  it  seems  as  though  one  would  welcome  the 
harsh,  frigid  embrace  of  the  Jungfrau  in  contrast, 
doesn't  it  ?" 

"  My  poor  Eunice !     Have  you  felt  that,  too  ?" 

"Marriage  teaches  one  very  varied  emotions,"  said 
Eunice,  with  that  almost  phlegmatic  bitterness  which 
Barbara  had  noticed  before.  "  I  think  it  is  the  hardest 
and  the  deepest  lesson  that  life  holds  for  us." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  the  lesson  is  ?"  asked  Bar 
bara,  eagerly. 

"  To  be  great-minded  in  spite  of  the  littleness  of 
others,  to  conquer  one's  self,  to  develop  one's  higher 
nature,  to  forgive  always,  to  ask  for  forgiveness,  to  be 
taught  with  briers  and  not  to  cry  out,  to  learn  more 
and  more  how  to  love  without  judging,  and  to  believe 
that  God  is  all  love,  and  that,  therefore,  justice  can 
have  no  part  in  Him.  But,  Barbara,  dear,  dear  Bar 
bara,  you  must  remember  that  all  this  has  come  to  me 
through  years  of  dreary  striving.  Such  words  must 
seem  so  chill,  so  unmeaning  to  you,  in  all  the  fiery 
freshness  of  your  pain.  It  seems  almost  as  though  one 
were  to  oifer  a  bit  of  court-plaster  to  a  poor  creature 
who  was  being  sawn  asunder.  I  know  how  you  suffer, 
poor  child,  poor  child !  And  there  is  not  any  real  com 
fort  that  anyone  can  give  just  at  first.  But  the  hottest 
flames  die  into  ashes  if  we  have  patience;  and  I  think 
we  are  given  our  one  great  opportunity  when  we  are 
called  on  to  suffer  as  you  are  suffering  now.  And  then, 
oh,  my  child,  he  loves  you !  Say  that  over  and  over  to 
yourself.  After  all  he  loves  you  with  a  great,  ardent, 
consuming  love.  He  is  not  tepid,  or  cold,  or  self- 


BARBARA   DERING.  103 

righteous.  He  is  a  man  in  every  fibre.  I  have  seen 
that  in  the  few  glimpses  I  have  caught  of  him.  He 
has  terrible,  terrible  faults ;  but  they  are  outside ;  they 
are  excrescences  which  may  be  cut  off.  Some  natures 
are  like  bits  of  poor  marble :  the  little  thin  dark  vein 
runs  through  and  through.  One  may  chip  and  chip 
until  the  brittle  stuff  lies  all  about  one,  but  still  the 
stain  is  there  to  the  very  core.  I  sometimes  think  that 
with  strong  characters  nearly  all  things  are  possible. 
With  too  much  material  one  can  cut  away,  can  modify ; 
but  with  too  little  what  can  even  God  do  but  strain  the 
poor  stuff  to  its  greatest  compass  ;  and  then  how  thin, 
how  flimsy  it  looks  after  all!  I  think  that  a  noble, 
high-natured,  unselfish  woman  married  to  a  vigorous 
man  of  generous  impulses,  can  make  almost  anything 
of  him  that  she  desires, — no  matter  what  his  faults  of 
impulse  and  temper  are,  no  matter  how  much  of  the 
brute,  the  Pan,  there  may  be  kneaded  in  with  those 
energetic  forces  that  make  up  most  genuine  men.  It  is 
what  you  have  so  often  said  to  me,  '  The  woman-soul 
leads  us  upward  and  on  ;'  and  there  is  no  woman-soul 
that  can  lead  a  man  so  high,  so  far,  as  the  soul  of  the 
woman  who  has  become  his  wife." 

Barbara  drew  a  deep  breath  and  pressed  her  face 
close  to  Eunice's  breast. 

"  You  do  comfort  me, — you  do  comfort  me,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  You  put  into  words  what  my  heart  is  strug 
gling  to  define,  and  you  make  me  feel  how  with  me  you 
are, — just  a  dear  sister  who  has  suffered  too,  and  who  is 
trying  to  help  me  to  the  place  of  calm  where  she  stands. 
One  feels  that  your  God  is  a  God  of  great,  broad,  shelter 
ing  wings, — not  a  sort  of  Jewish  Jove  waiting  to  hurl 
down  wrath  and  retribution  at  the  first  offence.  Some 
times,  Eunice,  I  think  that  if  I  were  a  great  painter  I 


104  BARBARA   DERINQ. 

should  represent  Christ  carrying  a  little  goat  in  his 
arms.  When  I  think  of  Him  I  cannot  help  feeling  that 
humanity  is  divine  rather  than  that  divinity  is  human. 
Somehow  the  conventional  idea  of  heaven  horrified 
me  even  as  a  child.  I  remember  how  I  used  to  shock 
grandmamma  by  saying  that  I  would  ask  God  to  give 
me  a  country  place,  and  not  make  me  live  in  the  New 
Jerusalem  !  And  this  year,  in  reading  one  of  Henly's 
poems,  I  came  upon  the  self-same  thought.  Then  I  had 
another  theory  which  comforted  me.  I  used  to  ima 
gine  that  if  I  tried  with  all  my  might  to  be  good  I 
would  live  a  new  and  higher  life,  but  still  a  human  life, 
on  every  star  in  space  before  I  reached  the  orthodox 
heaven.  I  always  had  such  a  vigorous  love  of  human 
nature.  It  seemed  to  me  that  most  religions  were 
striving  to  reduce  matter,  and  even  God,  to  what  they 
believed  in,  as  original  chaos.  It  used  to  madden  me 
when  grandmamma  tried  to  make  me  call  myself  a  poor 
worm.  Somehow  I  felt  that  it  was  insulting  the  God 
whose  visible  thought  I  was.  And  oh !  Val  understood 
me  so  perfectly,  while  Jock  thinks  me  so  wild  and 
unbridled  in  my  views !  Somehow,  he  seems  changed 
in  every  way  since  our  marriage.  I  don't  seem  to  be 
able  to  make  him  happy,  even  when  I  try  the  hardest. 
Do  you  care  for  Plato,  Eunice  ?  Sometimes  he  soothes 
and  lifts  me  up  as  no  one  else  does.  I  read  something 
this  morning  that  agrees  so  exactly  with  what  you  have 
been  saying  to  me.  Wait  a  minute ;  let  me  get  the 
book.  Here  it  is.  Listen.  Isn't  this  wonderful  ? 

"  '  Honor  the  soul.  Truth  is  the  beginning  of  all 
good  ;  and  the  greatest  of  all  evils  is  self-love  ;  and  the 
worst  penalty  of  evil-doing  is  to  grow  into  likeness  with 
the  bad.  For  each  man's  soul  changes,  according  to  the 
nature  of  his  deeds,  for  better  or  for  worse.' " 


BARBARA  DERINO.  105 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  Eunice,  her  eyes  bright  and  blue  as 
flame,  "  that  is  it !  '  The  greatest  of  all  evils  is  self- 
love.'  Barbara,  darling,  I  know  you  do  not  think  I 
have  been  preaching  at  you.  I  think  you  absolutely 
unselfish  at  heart.  Such  selfish  things  as  you  have 
done  have  been  through  ignorance,  not  through  wilful- 
ness.  You  have  such  a  gentle,  big,  loving  heart,  it 
cannot  lead  you  wrong.  I  feel  that.  Indeed,  I  know 
it.  You  will  grow  into  a  sort  of  dear  Titan-ess  of  good 
ness.  Oh,  Barbara,  Barbara !  after  all,  to  do  what  our 
hand  findeth  to  do  with  all  our  might,  to  love  and  help 
others,  to  grow  as  perfect  as  we  can  through  suffering, — 
that  is  the  greatest  of  all.  And  then  to  find  love  and 
sympathy  when  one  has  given  up  expecting  them  !  I, 
too,  have  always  dreamed  of  a  friendship  such  as  ours ; 
I,  too,  have  always  felt  that  there  could  be  a  woman- 
friendship  equal  to  any  that  has  ever  been  between 
men.  I  am  shy,  I  have  the  habit  of  reserve,  I  feel  that 
I  express  myself  so  coldly  ;  but  I  do  love  you,  Barbara. 
I  will  be  true  to  you  through  everything.  You  can 
trust  me.  I  will  never  change."  Tears  were  running 
down  her  cheeks  as  she  finished  speaking,  and  Barbara's 
face  was  also  wet.  They  kissed  each  other  solemnly, 
and  sat  for  a  while  with  hands  clasped,  their  cheeks 
pressed  close  together. 

"  You  will  believe  in  me,  then,  Eunice  ?"  said  Barbara, 
presently ;  "  you  will  believe  that  I  am  going  to  try  with 
all  my  strength  ?  When  I  make  blunders  and  fail  in 
what  I  try  to  do,  you  will  forgive  me  ?" 

"  Dearest,  we  will  forgive  each  other  always  !"  cried 
Eunice,  touched  by  the  sorrowful  humility  in  her 
friend's  voice. 

"I  know  how  trying  I  must  be,"  continued  Bar 
bara,  "  I  have  such  aggravating  faults.  But,  oh  !" — she 


106  BARBARA   DERING. 

broke  off,  and  a  smile  rippled  suddenly  over  her  face — 
;'  sometimes,  when  one  is  in  a  certain  mood,  and  one's 
husband  becomes  rather  boisterously  affectionate,  it  is 
as  if  one  were  famished  and  longing  for  iced  sherbet 
and  a  broiled  partridge  were  offered  one  instead  !" 

"  Or  a  bit  of  stale  bread,"  said  Eunice,  dryly. 

"  And  yet,  dear,"  went  on  Barbara,  "  we  are  not  the 
bloodless  creatures  that  we  are  generally  thought  to  be. 
Did  you  ever  notice  how,  when  a  woman  is  considered 
very  ardent,  she  is  thought  to  be  an  exception  to  the 
general  rule  ?  Men  are  fond,  of  saying  that  we  cannot 
keep  a  secret ;  and  yet,  when  I  think  how  well  we  have 
hidden  that  fact  for  ages,  until  even  scientists  speak  of 
us  as  lacking  in  fire,  I  cannot  help  smiling  at  the  popular 
belief!  We  are  trained  to  be  hypocrites.  We  are 
trained  to  regard  all  healthy,  natural,  vivid  impulses  as 
unrefined,  unfeminine,  immodest.  A  girl  likes  even  her 
lover  to  fancy  that  she  yields  unwillingly  to  his  kisses. 
Oh,  if  I  had  a  daughter,  I  would  teach  her  that  passion 
in  love,  in  religion,  in  friendship,  in  patriotism,  is  a 
great,  pure  fire  created  by  God,  and  not  to  be  scorned 
by  man  !  That  a  woman  who  errs  through  love  is  a 
nobler  creature  than  her  sister  who  marries  for  con 
venience  ;  that  true  modesty  regards  all  natural  im 
pulses  as  clean  ;  and  that  it  is  only  immodesty  which 
could  turn  away  with  a  blush  from  the  grand  nakedness 
of  the  Milo  !  I  love  to  think  that  Christ's  first  miracle 
was  at  a  marriage.  You  know  I  was  speaking  of  Plato 
just  now.  Did  you  ever  think  that  Christ  was  the  only 
philosopher  who  honored  the  human  body  and  soul 
equally?  Plato  would  cultivate  the  soul  always  at  the 
expense  of  the  body ;  the  Epicureans  the  body  at  the 
expense  of  the  soul ;  but  Christ  fitted  the  broken  arc 
together  and  declared  it  to  be  divine.  When  I  think 


BARBARA  DERING.  107 

of  the  people  who  criticise  love  in  all  its  aspects,  it 
seems  to  me  something  like  this.  There  is  a  great  red 
rose  growing  in  rich  soil.  One  comes  by  and  says, 
'  What  lovely  form !  What  exquisite  perfume !  But 
there  is  something  in  the  color  that  shocks  me  !  It  is 
too  violent!  Too  blood-like!'  Another  says,  'The 
color  and  form  are  beautiful,  but  what  a  pity  that  it 
has  to  grow  in  that  ugly  black  earth  !'  Then  comes 
a  poet  or  a  woman  who  really  loves,  and  says,  '  How 
perfect  in  every  way !  And  how  much  we  learn  when 
we  think  that  out  of  the  loving  darkness  of  the  dust 
this  flower  has  drawn  such  living  beauty!' " 

"  Oh,  Barbara,  Barbara,  Barbara  !"  breathed  Eunice. 
Her  face  was  glowing,  her  eyes  of  a  violet  darkness. 
"  How  could  you  help  making  any  man  happy  with 
such  ideas  of  love  and  life  ?  You  seem  to  open  win 
dows  in  one's  soul  and  let  in  great  strains  of  music.  I 
never  used  to  be  ashamed  of  feeling.  I  was  not  natu 
rally  a  hypocrite.  But — but "  She  broke  off  suddenly 

and  went  over  to  the  fireplace.  Barbara  did  not  follow 
her,  but  sat  quite  still,  her  large  eyes  full  of  a  tender 
comprehension. 

"  Sometimes  when — when  I  was  first  married,"  con 
tinued  Eunice,  her  face  still  turned  away,  "  I  used  to 
stretch  out  my  arms,  when  I  lay  awake  at  night  with 
Godfrey  asleep  beside  me,  and  I  used  to  think,  *  It  is 
like  being  crucified.  This  is  my  cross  I  am  lying  on.' 
When  Win  came  I  was  afraid  that  I  was  going  to  wor 
ship  her.  Oh,  how  I  loved  her!  how  I  doted  on  her! 
You  will  be  happier  when  you  have  a  child,  Barbara." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Barbara,  dreamily.  "  I 
have  thought  of  that  so  often.  But,  then,  if  he  were 
to  be  harsh  to  it,  or  if  it  were  to  look  at  me  with  un 
loving  eyes  ?" 


108  BARBARA  D BRING. 

"Yes,  those  doubts  are  natural,"  answered  Eunice. 
"  Godfrey  has  a  sister  who  seems  terrible  to  me.  Her 
name  is  Lydia,  and  she  believes  in  a  hell  of  actual  fire. 
She  thinks  any  great  feeling  is  a  sin,  and  sometimes 
her  eyes  seem  dreadful,  so  large  and  cruel !  Her  hair 
curls  like  snakes.  She  has  a  cruel,  beautiful  nose.  Her 
mouth  is  dreadful,  too, — so  flat,  so  pale.  I  used  to  fear 
that  Win  might  look  like  her,  might  be  like  her,  but 
you  see  how  different  she  is  in  every  way.  She  is  the 
joy  of  my  life.  I  shall  pray  for  you  to  have  a  sweet 
little  girl,  Barbara  darling." 

"I  —  I  am  afraid,"  whispered  Barbara,  timidly. 
"Not  of  the  physical  pain,"  she  hastened  to  add, 
noting  the  surprised  look  in  Eunice's  clear  eyes ;  "  only 
of  the  added  sorrow  that  it  might  be.  But,  whatever 
comes,  I  shall  try  to  think  of  Jock  before  myself,  and 
to  keep  true  to  my  own  ideal.  And  in  heaven — in 
some  other  world — somewhere — some  time. — You  do 
believe,  do  you  not  ?"  She  did  not  complete  these  in 
coherent  sentences,  but  stood  gazing  at  Eunice  through 
thick-gathering  tears,  her  hands  clasped  against  her 
breast  in  the  ardent  gesture  peculiar  to  her. 

"  Dear  heart,  I  do,  I  do !"  said  Eunice.  "  There  are 
some  lines  of  Browning  that  always  comfort  me.  I 
will  say  them  to  you."  And  with  her  arm  about  Barbara 
she  repeated  the  grand  words  in  her  quiet  voice, — 

"There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good!     What  was  shall  live  as 

before. 

The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  implying  sound. 
What  was  good  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good 

more. 
On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs :  in  the  heaven  the  perfect  round." 

"  Ah,  that  rouses !  That  is  as  stirring  as  a  trumpet- 
call  to  hope !"  cried  Barbara.  "  Dear,  blessed  Eunice, 


BARBARA   D BRING.  109 

I  will  remember  those  lines  and  your  strong,  comfort 
ing  words  to  me  this  afternoon  whenever  I  am  tempted 
to  be  wretched  and  disheartened." 

"  Thank  God  I  have  been  able  to  help  you !"  answered 
Eunice,  brokenly.  "  Eemember  I  shall  be  always  the 
same." 

"  And  I,"  said  Barbara.  "  God  bless  you  and  keep 
you." 

They  kissed  each  other  again,  and  then  Eunice  rode 
home  in  the  purpling  twilight. 


XVII. 

BARBARA'S  child  was  born  on  a  gray,  chill  day  in 
October,  a  year  after  their  marriage.  She  had  been 
very  ill.  Her  first  unconscious  cry  of  agony  had  sent 
Bering  dashing  out  into  the  still  gloom  of  the  frozen 
night,  his  hands  to  his  ears,  his  heart  nearly  suffocating 
him. 

His  suffering  during  the  next  hours  was  only  a  con 
tinuation  of  what  he  had  been  enduring  for  several 
months.  A  savage,  deep,  unconquerable  jealousy  of 
the  unborn  child  had  been  growing  and  festering  in 
his  heart  ever  since  he  knew  of  its  coming.  He  pic 
tured  Barbara  to  himself  lavishing  upon  it  the  passion 
ate  devotion  which  for  a  long  while  he  felt  that  he  had 
failed  to  arouse  in  her.  He  tortured  himself  with  all 
sorts  of  improbable  yet  possible  conjectures.  He  had 
never  admitted  it  to  himself,  and  yet  it  was  Yalentine 
Pomfret's  shadow  that  he  felt  between  himself  and 
Barbara.  What  if  this  child  were  to  develop  mental 
traits  that  would  be  an  eternal  reminder  of  Barbara's 

10 


110  BARBARA   DERING. 

first  marriage  ?  Could  he  help  hating  it  ?  He  clinched 
his  teeth  in  his  effort  to  force  down  a  rising  desire.  He 
had  almost  wished  that  it  would  die  at  its  birth, — at 
least  it  would  only  mean  another  complication,  another 
barrier,  another  source  of  endless  discussion.  When 
poor  Barbara  tried  to  speak  to  him  of  the  future  he 
wounded  her  with  his  brusqueness.  He  would  turn 
the  subject  at  once;  sometimes  with  a  jest  that 
shocked  her,  sometimes  with  a  coldness  that  brought 
stinging  tears.  He  became  silent,  morbid,  almost  a 
monomaniac  on  the  subject.  It  was  scarcely  ever 
out  of  his  mind.  When  he  woke  in  the  night  it 
haunted  him.  It  was  his  first  thought  in  the  morning ; 
and  yet  he  never  alluded  to  it  of  his  own  accord.  He 
imagined  every  sort  of  future  complication.  If  it 
were  a  boy,  it  would  grow  up  to  disappoint  them,  to 
make  a  fool  of  itself  at  college,  to  squander  money,  to 
become  a  "  sport"  and  a  "  noodle"  and  jeer  at  his  ideas 
of  guiding  humanity  into  higher  places  and  mitigating 
the  world-suffering.  As  a  daughter,  he  saw  it  vain, 
frivolous,  headstrong,  pert,  and  pretty, — always  with 
Valentine's  gentle,  irritating  ways,  the  mere  memory 
of  which  scraped  along  his  nerves  like  a  fine  comb 
through  tangled  hair. 

As  he  walked  back  and  forth  over  the  ice-stiff  grass, 
he  became  aware,  with  a  great,  engulfing  amazement, 
that  he  wished  to  pray,  but  doubted  whether  it  would 
do  much  good  after  all.  His  faith  had  never  had  the 
supreme  test  before :  he  felt  the  great  fabric  give  and 
strain  as  rising  passions  tore  at  it  with  almost  equal 
force.  Somehow  until  to-night  he  had  felt  that  God 
was  with  him  personally,  approvingly.  Now  he  began 
to  question  the  system  of  the  universe  under  that 
vehement  rebellion  at  the  idea  of  losing  the  one  treas- 


BARBARA   DERI  NO.  HI 

ure  which  more  than  any  other  emotion  can  shake  the 
human  heart  to  its  centre. 

Only  the  day  before  he  had  spoken  harsh,  unloving 
words  to  her.  He  had  seen  her  great  eyes  slowly  brim 
with  tears  under  his  tone  and  manner,  and  they  had 
vexed  him.  There  was  no  doubt  of  her  suffering  now. 
Even  as  he  thought,  another  of  those  wailing  cries  that 
he  so  dreaded  thrilled  to  him  through  the  bitter  air 
and  brought  out  a  fine  beading  on  his  uncovered  fore 
head.  He  put  his  arms  about  a  tree,  near  which  he 
stood,  and  grasped  it  as  though  it  had  been  some  living 
thing  which  could  save  him  from  his  own  terror  and 
self-reproach.  Her  dog  came  snuffing  about  his  feet. 
He  looked  upward  through  the  floating,  inky  foliage 
of  the  tree  whose  trunk  he  clasped.  Her  face  seemed 
burnt  on  the  night  wherever  he  turned.  The  scene  of 
their  first  meeting  came  back  to  him  as  though  it  had 
been  yesterday.  After  all,  was  there  another  woman 
like  her  on  earth  ?  Women  more  faultless  certainly, 
more  submissive,  more  willing  to  accept  the  popular 
idea  of  life,  with  whom  domestic  existence  would  be 
more  tranquil,  whose  views  on  vital  questions  would  be 
less  disturbing — but  one  just  like  her?  Never!  Even 
with  her  faults,  would  he  wish  her  to  change  in  any 
essential  quality  ? 

"  Oh,  my  God !  my  dear  God !"  he  broke  forth  sud 
denly.  "  Let  her  live !  Let  her  love  me !  Let  me 
teach  her  to  love  me!  Show  me  how  to  be  what  she 
would  like !  Help  us  to  understand  each  other !  Help 
her !  Help  her !  Save  her  from  this  horrible  torture !" 

He  could  hear  his  teeth  clacking  together  as  he 
stopped  speaking.  It  struck  him  as  being  grimly  droll, 
and  he  gave  a  sort  of  mirthless  laugh.  A  tide  of 
memory  began  to  sweep  over  him  as  though  he  were 


112  BARBARA   DERING. 

drowning.  He  held  her  in  his  arms.  He  kissed  her 
wonderful  mouth.  She  loved  him.  She  pressed  him 
to  her,  and  gazed  up  at  him  with  the  old  love-look. 
Then  with  a  start  he  came  to  himself  again.  She  was 
lying  in  her  pretty  room  up-stairs  in  mortal  pain. 
Perhaps  she  was  dying. 

"  If  you  will  let  her  live,  I  will  be  so  good !  I  will  be 
so  good  !"  he  heard  himself  stammering.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  hours  had  passed.  Then  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer  and  went  back  to  the  house.  He  wandered  into 
every  room  which  held  a  tender  memory  of  her,  and 
at  last  threw  himself  on  the  divan  in  the  music-room, 
his  face  buried  in  the  cushions  which  held  the  subtle 
perfume  of  her  hair. 

It  was  Eunice  Bransby  who  came  and  stooped  over 
him,  putting  her  hand  very  gently  on  his  shoulder. 

"  It's  all  right,"  she  said,  smiling,  but  very  pale. 
"  You  have  a  little  daughter." 

He  stared  at  her  so  crazily  out  of  a  face  white  and 
drawn  almost  past  recognition,  that  she  took  his  hand 
in  both  hers  before  repeating, — 

"  It's  all  right.     Barbara  is  safe." 

Bering  struggled  terribly  for  a  moment,  then  dropped 
his  face  again  into  the  tumbled  cushions  and  broke  into 
that  harsh,  agonized  sobbing  which  comes  to  some  men 
only  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime. 


XVIII. 

BARBARA  was  not  one  of  those  women  whose  exuber 
ance  of  maternal  instinct  leads  them  to  caress  every 
baby  of  average  comeliness  and  cleanliness  whom  they 


BARBARA  D BRING.  113 

may  chance  to  meet.  Her  nature  was  maternal  cer 
tainly,  but  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the  word.  She 
yearned  over  all  living  things  with  that  impartiality 
of  true  motherliness  which  will  nurse  a  wounded  hawk 
as  tenderly  as  the  broken-winged  bird  which  it  has 
sought  to  kill.  Her  term  of  expectancy  had  not  been 
cheered  with  those  ecstatic  dreams  which  brighten  the 
waiting  of  most  young  mothers.  At  times  she  even 
dreaded  the  coming  of  her  child,  and  imagined  that  it 
would  be  cold  and  uncongenial  and  given  to  criticise 
her,  as  it  grew  older ;  but  she  depended  a  great  deal  on 
the  maternal  instinct  which  was  supposed  to  arrive 
with  all  children,  and  which  she  thought  would  bring 
her  a  portion  at  least  of  the  triumphant  buoyancy 
which  women  were  said  to  feel  on  such  occasions. 

When  the  little  warm,  fragrant  flannel  bundle  was 
laid  beside  her,  however,  she  only  experienced  a  vague 
sense  of  unreality,  mingled  with  a  faint  revulsion  at 
what,  in  her  weak  state,  seemed  to  her  the  generally 
unnatural  aspect  of  life  at  that  moment.  In  her  heart 
she  wished  that  they  would  take  it  away  and  not  let 
her  see  it  until  it  got  more  attractive  and  human 
looking,  and  then,  as  scalding  tears  slowly  forced  them 
selves  between  her  closed  lids,  wondered  if  she  would 
have  felt  more  loving  to  it  if  Jock  had  been  kinder  to 
her  before  its  birth. 

He  was  not  allowed  to  see  her  for  several  hours 
after  Eunice  had  come  to  him  with  the  news  that  he 
had  a  daughter.  When  he  entered  the  room  he  was 
confronted  by  the  great  bed,  which  looked  to  him  as 
broad  and  white  as  a  roof  covered  with  new-fallen 
snow.  Barbara  lay  pale  and  quiet,  her  eyes  wide,  her 
rich  hair  smoothed  out  on  either  side  of  her  face.  The 
delicately-pointed  ruffles  of  her  thin  night-gown  only 
h  10* 


114  BARBARA   D BRING. 

accentuated  the  clear  whiteness  of  her  face.  Her  lips 
were  parted  and  of  a  dry,  deep  crimson.  She  did  not 
smile  when  she  saw  him.  Her  eyes  seemed  looking 
past  him  and  not  at  him.  He  felt  himself  shuddering, 
and  glanced  nervously  about.  They  were  alone.  He 
knelt  beside  her  very  cautiously,  ventured  to  take  one 
of  her  pale  hands  and  drew  it  to  him. 

"  Forgive  me, — forgive  me,  Barbara, — my  poor,  beauti 
ful  Barbara!  How  you  have  suffered  ! — and  I, — I  too!  I 
have  been  in  hell.  But  you  will  forgive  me.  You 
always  forgive  me.  We  will  conquer  life  yet,  my 
darling,  my  darling !  How  I  adore  you  !  You  are  my 
saint  now !  You  have  been  martyred,  and  for  me ! 
You  have  borne  all  this  for  me !  But  say  you  forgive 
me.  Let  me  hear  you  say  it." 

"  I  say  it,"  answered  Barbara,  in  a  dull,  slow  voice. 

"  Oh,  Barbara !  Do  you  mean  it,  when  you  say  it 
like  that?  1  cannot  think  that  you  really  mean  it. 
Do  you,  my  own,  my  life's  blood  ?" 

"  I  mean  it,"  she  repeated  in  the  same  voice. 

Her  eyes  stared  at  him,  but,  alas,  past  him,  over  his 
head.  Dering  gave  a  desperate,  uncontrollable  sob. 

"  Oh,  God  !"  he  whispered.  "  Don't  you  love  me  any 
more,  Barbara  ?  Is  it  over  ?  Have  I  killed  your  love  ?" 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Barbara,  in  a  school-girl  tone,  as 
though  she  had  the  words  by  rote.  Then  she  began  to 
chant  them  in  a  sort  of  sing-song,  "Oh,  no!  Oh,  no!" 

Dering  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  and  saw  that  she 
was  wandering.  He  left  the  room  and  went  out  into 
the  moist,  windy  dawn.  The  past  year  seemed  to  stand 
clearly  before  him,  each  month  numbered  in  order. 
They  had  been  married  in  October.  In  November 
their  disputes  had  begun.  December  had  seen  them 
bitterly  angered  against  each  other.  January  was 


BARBARA   DERING.  115 

worse.  February  still  more  terrible.  He  broke  away, 
with  an  angry  gesture,  from  his  own  reminiscences, 
and  walking  briskly  onward,  his  head  down,  began  to 
examine  himself,  his  conduct,  his  attitude  towards  the 
woman  whom  he  had  married.  He  had  never  forced 
himself  upon  her,  never  insisted  upon  any  caress 
which  she  had  not  been  in  the  mood  to  bestow.  His 
conscience  was  clear  on  that  point.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  had  given  way  to  utter  harshness  against  her, — 
he  had  laughed  at  what  he  had  chosen  to  call  her 
"  feminine  idiosyncrasies."  He  had  disregarded  her 
shy  hints  about  gentleness  and  tenderness  in  married 
love-making.  He  had,  in  a  word,  made  himself  in  every 
particular  a  splendid  foil  for  a  dead  and  consequently 
idealized  husband.  He  ground  his  teeth  as  this 
thought  gripped  him,  but  then  remembered  that  the 
only  child  she  had  ever  borne  was  his,  and  trembled  in 
the  realization,  his  set  features  relaxing.  The  fact  of 
their  failure  to  make  one  another  happy  baffled  him. 
Their  mutual  trust  was  entire.  He  knew  that,  no 
matter  what  state  of  irritation  might  beset  them,  they 
were  proof  against  all  ignoble  jealousies  and  suspicions. 
He  knew  her  absolute  purity  too  thoroughly  ever  to 
let  a  doubt  of  her  cross  his  mind,  and  he  was  convinced 
that  she  yielded  him  a  like  confidence.  If  he  was  ever 
jealous,  it  was  of  the  ghost  of  a  former  love.  He  had 
a  desperate  sense  sometimes  of  struggling  with  phantom 
shapes  which  eluded  him,  yet  remained  as  real  while 
as  intangible  as  the  air  he  breathed. 

Then  all  at  once  he  was  overwhelmed  with  a  sense 
of  what  she  had  suffered  physically  because  of  him. 
The  idea  of  that  precious  body  racked  with  slow  and 
terrible  torture  seemed  to  cripple  his  own  limbs.  He 
leaned  against  the  rough  rails  of  a  snake-fence,  and, 


116  BARBARA   DERING. 

pressing  his  forehead  against  his  arms,  gave  a  bitter 
moan  of  bewildered  unhappiness. 

Life  seemed  very  pointless  and  harsh  to  him  just 
then.  He  found  it  in  him  to  pity  the  poor  little  scrap 
of  humanity  which  might  have  cost  his  idol  her  life. 
In  the  natural  order  of  things  she  would  some  day 
have  to  suffer  for  another  being  the  very  anguish 
which  had  given  her  life. 

He  told  himself  that  the  day  of  miracles  had  past, 
and  yet  found  that  he  hoped  for  some  miracle  which 
would  change  the  iron  monotony  of  his  pain  ;  and  then 
he  was  strongly  tempted  to  give  his  strained  nerves 
their  way  and  laugh  aloud  long,  boisterously.  How 
absurd  it  all  seemed !  He  had  thought  that  the  world 
was  his  oyster !  And  he  was  not  even  able  to  conquer 
his  own  wretchedness,  much  less  that  of  others  ! 

Barbara  was  very  ill  for  some  time  after  that  first 
visit,  but  at  last  she  was  stronger,  and  one  day  sent 
for  him  to  come  to  her,  as  she  lay  wrapped  in  a  deli 
cate  pink  dressing-gown,  which  reflected  up  on  her 
pale  face  and  gave  her  the  semblance  of  an  April 
bloom.  She  held  out  her  hands  to  him  as  he  entered, 
and  he  noticed  that  her  rings  were  loose  for  her. 
Something  in  this  trivial  fact  touched  him  deeply.  He 
quickened  his  steps,  and,  throwing  himself  on  his  knees 
beside  her,  gathered  her  to  his  breast.  She  lay  with 
great  tears  blotting  her  sight,  one  hand  gently  caress 
ing  his  curls.  Both  felt  that  wondrous  nearness  which 
only  a  past  and  mutual  pain  can  bring. 

"  How  strange !  how  strange  it  all  seems !"  she 
whispered  finally,  and  when  Dering  lifted  his  head  she 
saw  that  his  eyes,  too,  had  been  hot  with  tears. 

"  It  is  good  to  suffer,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  It  brings 
such  peace." 


BARBARA   DERI  NO.  H7 

"I  thought  that  you  would  never  love  me  again," 
returned  Dering,  with  a  sort  of  sob. 

"  Dear  Jock !  We  have  both  so  much  to  forgive  and 
forget." 

"  Oh,  no !  You  mustn't  say  that,  Barbara.  You 
have  so  much  more  to  forgive  than  I  have." 

"  Perhaps  you  mean  it  is  harder  for  me,  because  I  am 
a  woman." 

"  Yes,  I  think  that  is  what  I  meant.  My  dearest ! 
How  lovely  you  look !" 

"  But  so  horridly  pale,  dear." 

"  I  love  you  pale.  I  told  you  that  once  before,  didn't 
I?" 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  you  only  said  it  to  be  nice." 

"  I'm  not  much  given  to  that  sort  of  thing." 

They  both  laughed,  then  Dering  said,  flushing  and 
looking  rather  conscious, — 

"  And  the — the — it, — where  is  it,  Barbara  ?" 

"Oh,  it!"  replied  Barbara,  and  blushed  too.  Then 
she  assumed  a  serious  look,  and  said,  "  I'll  send  for  it, 
— her,  I  mean.  But  haven't  you  seen  her,  while  I've 
been  ill?" 

"  No.  I  didn't  want  to,"  said  Dering,  grimly.  "  Your 
friend,  Mrs.  Bransby,  thought  I  was  an  odious  savage, 
I  know.  But  you  were  so  ill, — I  should  have  hated  it 
if  you  had  died,  and  so  I  refused  to  look  at  it.  Do 
you  think  me  a  monster,  darling  ?" 

"No.  I — I — love  you  for  it,"  said  Barbara,  shyly. 
"  Only  you  couldn't  have  hated  it  really,  you  know. 
It's  a  very  dear  baby.  Now  please  don't  laugh !  It  is, 
I  assure  you.  Wait  until  you  see  it.  Ah !  here  it — 
she  is,  I  mean.  Now  give  it  to  me,  Aunt  Polly.  There, 
look  at  it,  Jock.  It  isn't  red  at  all." 

"Why,  that's  a  fact!"    exclaimed    Dering.      "The 


118  BARBARA  D BRING. 

rogue !  How  it  scowls !  It's  got  a  devil  of  a  temper ; 
hasn't  it,  Aunt  Polly?" 

"Hit's  right  fractious,  marster,"  admitted  Aunt 
Polly,  honestly. 

"  Why,  it's  downright  pretty !"  exclaimed  Bering, 
after  a  moment  more  of  absorbed  scrutiny.  "  It's  got 
eyebrows.  I  never  heard  of  a  baby  with  eyebrows. 
And  such  a  lot  of  hair, — curly  at  the  ends,  too !  What 
a  pretty  rascal !  I  should  like  to  hold  it  May  I  ?" 

"Don't  you  think  you  might — er — twist  it?"  asked 
Barbara,  nervously.  "  I  don't  quite  like  to  handle  it 
myself.  You've  no  idea  how — how  india-rubbery  it 
is,  Jock." 

"  But  then  it's  a  small  you,  Bab  dearest." 

"  How  funny !     You  never  ealled  me  '  Bab'  before !" 

"  No ;  but  it's  a  dear  little  name,  isn't  it  ?  What  is 
this  minx  to  be  called  ?" 

"Not  Barbara! — that  is,  if  you  don't  mind.  My 
mother's  name  was  Fairfax,  —  Katherine  Fairfax. 
Would  you  mind  Fairfax  Eunice?  I  like  our  Virginia 
way  of  giving  girls  family  names,  don't  you  ?" 

"Hullo !  she's  laughing.  She  likes  it,  too !"  exclaimed 
Bering.  "  What  pitfalls  of  dimples !  She's  a  perfect 
dear !  Does  your  name  please  you,  Lady  Fair  ?" 

He  turned  and  clasped  Barbara  and  the  child  with 
sudden  vehemence. 

"You're  all  mine, — both  of  you!"  he  said,  with  a 
sort  of  exulting  gayety.  Then  he  turned  Barbara's 
face  so  that  he  could  look  at  her  eyes.  "  You  feel  that 
you  are  more  mine  now  than  you  have  ever  been 
another's?"  he  asked,  in  the  deep  voice  that  with  him 
always  meant  great  emotion. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  solemnly. 

He  rested  his  lips  upon  her  forehead  in  a  long  kiss, 


BARBARA   DERING.  H9 

and  they  remained  motionless  with  the  sleeping  child 
between  them,  as  though  afraid  of  breaking  some  bliss 
ful  spell.  Afterwards,  when  little  Fair  had  been  taken 
away  and  they  sat  holding  each  other's  hands  and  look 
ing  out  into  the  pearly  twilight,  Bering  drew  a  great 
catching  sigh  and  burst  forth, — 

"How  terrible  I  have  been  to  you,  my  poor  dear! 
I'm  afraid  I'm  an  infernal  savage.  Love  makes  me 
actually  cruel  sometimes." 

"  But  then  I  have  tried  you  dreadfully,"  said  Barbara. 
"Don't  let  us  speak  of  those  fearful  times  now. 
They  are  over,  over,  over." 

"  Yes,  forever,"  said  Bering,  positively. 

"  Unberufen  /"  Barbara  could  not  help  exclaiming, 
and  added  three  warning  taps  on  the  window-sill, 
while  they  both  laughed  together.  During  those  mo 
ments  of  happy  gayety  Dering  forgot  the  jealous 
doubts  which  had  poisoned  the  last  few  months  for 
him.  It  was  as  impossible  to  call  up  past  suffering  in 
this  intense  present  as  it  is  to  imagine  one  melody 
while  listening  to  the  actual  chords  that  compose 
another.  Then,  too,  as  far  as  physical  semblance  went, 
the  child  was,  as  he  had  said,  a  small  Barbara,  with  no 
suggestion  of  either  himself  or  Valentine  in  its  clear 
face.  His  nature  had  undergone  one  of  those  quick 
changes  which  transformed  him,  often  without  warning, 
into  a  different  being.  He  was  all  gentleness  and  sun 
shine.  Barbara  could  not  help  asking  herself  if  she 
had  not  imagined  much  of  the  past  anguish.  Could 
the  man  who  stroked  her  hair  so  tenderly,  who  closed 
her  lids  with  the  gentlest  kisses,  who  spoke  to  her 
with  such  delicate  love-phrases,  could  he  ever  really 
have  glared  at  her  with  furious  eyes,  pushed  her  from 
him  with  harsh  roughness  ? 


120  BARBARA  DERINQ. 

The  mere  memory  sent  a  cold  trickle  of  revulsion 
through  the  sweet  warmth  of  her  mood.  She  gave  a 
little  shiver,  and  then,  with  a  swift  movement  as 
though  appealing  to  him  for  protection  from  some 
terrifying  presence,  clung  to  him  and  pressed  her  face 
against  his  breast.  He  held  her  fast  with  broken  words 
of  love  and  comfort,  feeing  in  her  sudden  gesture  only 
the  nervousness  that  comes  after  any  intense  strain  of 
mind  or  body,  and  realizing  with  a  moved  surprise  that 
she  was  dearer  to  him  than  she  had  ever  been  as  sweet 
heart  or  newly -married  wife. 


XIX. 

SOME  weeks  later  Barbara  found  herself  walking 
through  the  rolling  meadows  that  separated  Rosemary 
from  The  Poplars.  She  was  alone,  except  for  the  dogs, 
as  Dering  had  been  called  unexpectedly  to  New  York, 
and  her  mood  was  one  of  exultant  freedom.  Nothing 
seemed  to  her  more  impossible  than  that  the  child 
which  she  had  left  rosily  sleeping  was  her  flesh  and 
blood,  actually  a  part  of  her  being,  spiritual  and  physi 
cal,  who  would  one  day  progress  unto  calling  her 
"Mother."  She  laughed  as  she  ran  along  with  her 
hand  on  her  deerhound's  collar. 

The  day  seemed  a  gray  globe  of  whirling  wind. 
Overhead  the  sky  was  streaked  with  flying  feathers  of 
cloud,  driven  in  all  directions  by  the  opposite  air-cur 
rents.  The  broom  fields  swept  against  the  rich  violet 
of  the  hills  in  overlapping  billows  of  pale  rose-yellow, 
gray-white,  of  straw-color,  of  rich  burnt-orange.  Here 
and  there  the  faint-red  curve  of  a  path  was  beaten  out 


BARBARA   BERING.  121 

along  a  slope,  upon  which  the  tawny  growth  rippled 
in  the  sheets  of  wind. 

Barbara  had  a  love  of  the  open  fields  equal  to  that 
which  she  felt  for  the  ocean.  She  would  always  cross 
them  in  preference  to  keeping  the  road,  scrambling 
over  fences  and  through  patches  of  bramble  and  under 
brush  to  attain  her  end,  and  finding  her  reward  in  the 
friendly  solitude  which  she  loved,  the  whirr  of  startled 
birds,  the  close  darting  of  small  creatures  whose  homes 
were  in  the  tussocks  of  wild  grass  and  broom  disturbed 
by  her  venturous  feet.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  pos 
sessed  her  own  soul  more  completely  during  these  com- 
panionless  walks,  and  she  was  learning  to  look  forward 
to  them  as  a  means  of  developing  a  certain  new  growth 
of  mentality  of  which  she  had  begun  to  be  conscious 
during  the  past  months.  Hers  was  a  being  which 
responded  generously  to  the  teaching  of  sorrow,  which 
was  never  hardened  by  it,  but  lent  itself  to  that  power 
ful  moulding  with  the  plastic  readiness  characteristic 
of  large  natures.  Even  in  her  past  waywardness  and 
egoism  there  had  always  been  a  distinct  vein  of  humility 
which  made  her  willing  to  accuse  herself  of  wrong 
doing  on  the  least  occasion,  and  by  which  she  had  often 
been  led  to  misrepresent  herself  to  others  through  the 
excessive  harshness  of  her  self-criticism.  It  was  in 
this  spirit  that  she  now  accepted  the  pain  which  had 
come  to  her  through  her  marriage  with  Dering.  She 
told  herself  that  she  had  been  exacting,  inconsiderate, 
almost  wilfully  trying,  for  in  the  first  shock  of  disap 
pointment  she  had  given  herself  up  to  a  sense  of  hope 
lessness,  which  found  its  only  relief  in  an  attitude  of 
minute  criticism,  and  made  of  their  daily  intercourse 
a  sort  of  magnify  ing-glass  to  classify  his  detailed  fail 
ures  of  tact  and  responsiveness.  She  had  married  him 
F  11 


122  BARBARA   DERING. 

with  the  idea  of  atoning  to  him  for  her  former  cruelty, 
and  she  had  ended  by  allowing  herself  to  be  over 
whelmed  at  the  lack  of  that  very  joy  which  she  had 
decided  to  be  impossible  of  attainment  by  most  people, 
and  certainly  not  twice  to  be  received  by  any  one. 

As  she  walked  rapidly  along  through  the  soft  De 
cember  wind,  she  began  thinking  of  her  life  as  a  novel 
in  three  volumes.  Her  marriage  with  Valentine  had 
been  the  first,  ending  wTith  his  death ;  her  meeting 
with  Dering  and  the  first  year  of  her  life  with  him  the 
second,  which  had  been  closed  by  the  birth  of  their 
child ;  while  now  she  stood  as  it  were  in  the  first  chapter 
of  the  third,  wondering  what  it  would  unfold ;  and  she 
quickened  her  steps  in  a  rush  of  sudden  determination 
which  seemed  to  force  onward  her  body  as  well  as  her 
mind. 

The  mother-sense  had  begun  to  stir  in  Barbara  with  a 
certain  bird-like  quality  which  lent  itself  to  wide-wing 
ing  thoughts.  She  had  not  experienced  any  peculiar 
ecstasy  in  the  mere  bodily  beauty  of  her  child,  who 
was  very  exquisite,  but  as  the  strange,  quiet  gray  eyes 
gazed  up  at  her  from  her  knee  with  that  steadfast 
seriousness  of  babyhood,  she  was  thrilled  by  a  solemn 
and  exalted  sense  of  the  spiritual  individuality  which 
made  this  small  creature  different  from  all  others  and 
invested  her  with  that  dignity  of  isolated  consciousness 
which  we  call  life.  During  her  hours  of  deep  reflection 
she  was  visited  by  those  ineffable  visions  full  of  the 
holiness  of  spiritual  light,  which  come  to  us  when  pon 
dering  how  we  may  work  the  good  of  others,  and  help 
to  supreme  beauty  some  soul  which  has  been  knit  to 
ours  through  love. 

She  longed  to  speak  of  these  new  and  vast  yearnings 
to  some  one  who  would  comprehend  that  they  were 


BARBARA   DERING.  123 

not  merely  the.  outbursts  of  a  young  mother  over  her 
first  baby.  She  knew  that  Boring  was  not  in  touch 
with  her  here.  By  some  acute  instinct  developed 
through  repeated  suffering  of  the  same  kind,  she  felt 
that  he  would  resent  her  mental  absorption  in  another, 
even  though  it  were  his  own  child,  and  was  careful  not 
to  make  the  baby  the  subject  of  discussion  unless  he 
first  alluded  to  her.  This  repression,  which  she  had 
practised  conscientiously,  made  her  doubly  anxious  to 
see  Eunice,  who  had  been  obliged  to  leave  for  Florida 
the  day  after  Fair's  birth  on  account  of  the  illness  of 
Bransby's  sister.  Indeed,  her  craving  to  be  with  this 
wonderful  friend  amounted  to  keen  mental  hunger, 
and  by  the  time  that  the  gray,  vine-laced  walls  of  The 
Poplars  gleamed  through  the  purplish  tracery  of  the 
trees  upon  the  oval  lawn  she  found  that  she  was  almost 
running,  in  her  eagerness  of  anticipation. 

As  she  walked  towards  the  house  over  the  bleached 
grasses,  she  saw  that  the  wide  doors  of  iron-bound  oak 
were  open,  and  that  outlined  against  the  ruddy  square 
of  the  hall  fireplace  a  tall  figure,  heavy  with  crape, 
was  standing  in  an  attitude  of  repellent  erectness. 

Barbara  at  once  guessed  this  to  be  Mrs.  Crosdill,  the 
sister  of  Bransby,  who,  as  Eunice  had  written,  would 
probably  return  with  her  to  Virginia.  Although  she 
was  not  near  enough  to  distinguish  the  stranger's  fea 
tures,  a  sense  of  antagonism  possessed  her  and  made  her 
hesitate  for  a  moment.  Before  she  could  exactly  realize 
the  emotion  which  had  chilled  her,  however,  Winifred 
came  darting  across  the  lawn,  her  floss  of  dark-brown 
curls  spinning  hatless  in  the  wind,  her  clear,  alert  little 
face  one  sparkle  of  delight. 

"Oh,  you  dear!  you  dear!  you  dear!"  she  cried, 
dancing  about  Barbara  in  a  sort  of  frenzy.  "  Oh,  I 


124  BARBARA   D BRING. 

do  feel  really  religious  'bout  your  coming !  It  makes 
me  b'lieve  in  prayer,  'cause  I  did  pray  so  hard  you'd 
come!  You  can't  think  how  horrid  and — and  sort 
of  fungusy  she  makes  things.  The  whole  hall  smells 
of  her  dreadful  crape.  And  she's  worse  than  papa 
'bout  Sunday,  and  has  such  a  graveyardy  way  of 
talking." 

"  Hush !  You  must  hush,  Win !"  said  Barbara,  giving 
her  a  soft  pinch  of  warning.  "I  suppose  by  'she' 
you  mean  your  aunt,  and  she's  coming  towards  us." 

"  Oh,  dem  !"  groaned  Win. 

Barbara  was  nearly  startled  into  one  of  her  ringing 
laughs,  but  managed  to  repress  it  and  assume  a  severe 
air. 

"  My  child !  What  a  horrid  word  !  Where  did  you 
hear  it  ?" 

"  Why,  it's  what  that  Mantalini  man  says,  Barbara, 
dear.  I  thought  everybody  knew  that.  It  isn't  any 
harm  when  you  crook  your  finger  for  quotation-marks, 
— and  I'm  going  to  say  it  to  Aunt  Lydia  some  day.  I 
am !"  she  ended,  looking  stubborn,  as  Barbara  shook 
her  head. 

Mrs.  Crosdill  here  reached  them,  and,  before  speak 
ing  to  Barbara  said,  in  a  cold  voice  of  admonishment, — 

"  Winifred,  I  am  sure  that  your  father  would  be  dis 
pleased  to  see  you  in  this  high  wind  without  a  hat. 
Go  and  fetch  Lois's  if  you  can't  find  your  own." 

"  Oh,  mother  wouldn't  care !"  responded  Win,  airily, 
accentuating  this  word  with  a  provoking  inflection: 
"and  this  is  mother's  dearest  friend,  Mrs.  Dering. 
Why  don't  you  speak  to  her  and  tell  her  to  come  in  ?" 

A  faint  purplish  flush  streaked  Mrs.  Crosdill's  cheeks. 
Her  mouth  had  a  thin  wideness  and  her  eyes  a  round 
brilliancy  which  struck  Barbara  as  frog-like.  They 


BARBARA   DERING.  125 

looked  at  each  other  and  felt  that  mutual  aversion 
which  Barbara  and  Bransby  had  also  experienced  at 
first  sight.  Mrs.  Crosdill  said,  formally, — 

"  I  am  sorry,  but  neither  my  brother  nor  Eunice  is  at 
home  to-day.  Will  you  come  in  ?  You  must  be  cold. 
I  should  think  it  was  too  windy  for  walking." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  her  that  mother  said  she'd  be 
back  in  an  hour?"  said  Win,  vindictively.  "She's 
been  gone  most  an  hour  now." 

"  Winifred,"  said  her  aunt,  eying  her  vividly,  "  you 
are  very  impertinent.  I  shall  speak  to  your  father." 

But  Winifred  remained  unmoved,  and  hopped  along 
on  her  slender,  black-stockinged  legs,  feigning  an  elabo 
rate  lameness,  with  two  old  weather-beaten  croquet- 
mallets  for  crutches,  and  murmuring,  coolly, — 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  will  drag  papa  in,  'cause  you 
must  see  he  don't  bother  'bout  us,  one  way  or  another." 

Again  Mrs.  Crosdill  flushed  dimly,  but  said  nothing 
this  time.  When  they  were  in  the  hall,  she  closed  the 
front  doors  and  rang  for  tea,  then  sat  down,  and  under 
the  cover  of  conventional  conversation  examined  nar 
rowly  Barbara's  personal  appearance,  while  Winifred 
flitted  from  window  to  window  in  a  state  of  nervous 
expectation. 

"  I  can't  see  why  mother  takes  so  long  to  come  back," 
she  cried,  finally,  rushing  towards  them  in  her  usual  im 
petuous  fashion  and  flinging  her  elbows  into  Barbara's 
lap,  while  she  grasped  her  chin  with  all  ten  little 
fingers.  "  Do  you  think  anything  could  have  happened 
to  her  ?  She's  riding  Dervish,  you  know,  and  he  does 
cut  up  so." 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  sure  not,  dear,"  said  Barbara,  stroking 
the  wild  mop  of  curls. 

"  Your  mother  has  not  been  gone  more  than  half  an 
11* 


126  BARBARA  DERING. 

hour,  Winifred,"  put  in  Mrs.  Crosdill  in  her  measured 
voice,  the  mere  sound  of  which  seemed  to  put  the 
nervous  child  into  a  state  of  almost  feverish  irritation. 

"  Oh,  'deed  I  do  think  she  has,  Aunt  Lydia,"  she  said, 
rebelliously.  "  I  think  it  will  be  too  bad  if  you  let 
Barbara  go  before  she  comes  back." 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  for  Mrs.  Bering  to  stay. 
Really,  the  manners  of  these  nineteenth-century  chil 
dren  are  lamentable,"  she  added,  turning  to  Barbara, 
and  speaking  across  Win's  tousled  head. 

The  latter  flushed  a  bright  rose,  drew  down  her  black 
brows  in  a  scowl,  and  shot  a  glance  of  condensed  loath 
ing  at  Mrs.  Crosdill  from  her  dilated  gray  eyes.  Then, 
after  a  moment  spent  in  silent  consideration,  walked 
away  to  the  other  side  of  the  hall  and  seemed  busy 
with  the  objects  on  one  of  the  large  tables  of  carved  oak, 
which  were  covered  with  the  latest  French,  English, 
and  American  periodicals,  several  photographs  in  leather 
frames,  and  books  of  etchings. 

"  You  have  been  very  ill,  haven't  you  ?"  said  Barbara 
at  last,  searching  about  for  some  topic  of  common 
interest. 

"Yes;  I  have  been  threatened  with  consumption  for 
two  years.  I  had  an  attack  of  rheumatic  bronchitis 
soon  after  reaching  Florida.  The  same  thing  Brown 
ing  died  of,  you  know.  My  physician  says  that  if  they 
had  given  him  salicylate  of  soda  he  would  be  alive 
now." 

"  How  dreadful  it  seems  to  think  of  the  life  of  a 
great  genius  like  that  being  dependent  on  a  drug !"  ex 
claimed  Barbara,  and  was  at  once  conscious  of  an  icy 
stream  of  disapproval  which  poured  into  Mrs.  Crosdill's 
polished-looking  brown  eyes. 

"I  must  say  that  I  never  thought  of  it  in   that 


BARBARA  BERING.  127 

light,"  she  replied,  stiffly.  "It  was  the  will  of  God 
that  Kobert  Browning  should  die.  If  it  had  not  been 
so,  some  one  would  have  been  inspired  to  give  him 
salicylate  of  soda." 

"I  didn't  know  that  doctors  had  usually  to  be  in 
spired  before  they  could  write  a  prescription,"  said 
Barbara,  angered  at  what  she  considered  the  decided 
insolence  of  Mrs.  CrosdilPs  manner. 

At  this  awkward  point  Winifred  shot  towards  them 
again,  holding  in  both  hands,  high  over  her  head,  a 
large  photograph,  her  red  mouth  pursed  malevolently, 
her  eyes  two  shining  streaks  of  mischief  behind  their 
bushy  black  lashes. 

uDo  you  see  this  old  gentleman,  Barbara?"  she 
called  out.  "  He's  a  bishop,  and  if  Aunt  Lydia  was  a 
Roman  Catholic  she'd  hang  him  over  her  bed  and  pray 
to  him  as  they  do  to  the  Virgin  Mary.  Ain't  his  hair 
curly  ?  I  know  he  puts  it  up  in  papers  every  night ; 
but,  of  course,  Aunt  Lydia  wouldn't  say  so,  even  if  she 
thought  it." 

Barbara  was  aghast  at  the  convulsion  of  anger  which 
distorted  Mrs.  Crosdill's  face.  It  grew  suffused  with 
blood,  the  veins  in  her  prominent  forehead  swelled. 
She  made  a  fierce,  hawk-like  pounce  and  caught  the 
child  by  the  arm,  tearing  from  her  the  photograph, 
which  she  placed  on  the  chair  from  which  she  had 
risen,  then  lifted  her  free  hand  as  though  to  strike. 
Barbara  leaped  to  her  feet  determined  to  interfere,  but 
saw  at  once  that  Winifred  was  fully  capable  of  pro 
tecting  herself. 

"  If  you  touch  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I'll 
kill  you."  And  there  was  something  so  dangerous  in 
the  curious  quiet  of  her  tone,  that  Mrs.  Crosdill  re 
leased  her. 


128  BARBARA  DERI  NO. 

"  You  wicked  little  creature,"  she  exclaimed.  "  God 
will  punish  you  for  your  blasphemy  if  your  weak  and 
self-indulgent  mother  does  not !" 

Winifred  looked  like  a  pale  flame  of  fury.  "  If  you 
dare  to  say  such  things  of  my  mother,  I'll  beg  God,  night 
and  morning,  to  punish  you  I"  she  said,  between  her 
sharp  little  teeth.  "  If  I  am  wicked,  it  is  you  that 
make  me  wicked.  I  could  'most  b'lieve  God  was  Hate 
if  I  stayed  long  in  the  house  with  you." 

"  Winifred !  Winifred  !"  said  Barbara,  but  in  such  a 
gentle  tone  and  with  her  arms  so  tenderly  outstretched, 
that  after  a  second's  quivering  pause  the  child  darted 
to  her,  and,  pressing  her  face  against  her  breast,  burst 
into  a  wild  passion  of  tears. 

Just  here  Eunice  entered.  She  seemed  to  compre 
hend  the  situation  at  once,  for  she  said  to  Barbara,  in  a 
low  voice, — 

"  Bring  her  up  to  my  room,  dear."  Then,  turning 
to  Mrs.  Crosdill,  added,  coldly,  "  I  am  very  sorry,  Lydia^ 
if  Win  has  been  naughty  to  you  again.  She  shall  ask 
your  pardon  later,  if  she  has  been." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  she  is  always  insolence  itself  to 
me,"  replied  that  lady,  bitingly. 

Eunice  left  the  room  without  saying  anything  in  re 
sponse  to  this  gracious  speech,  followed  by  Barbara,  to 
whom  Win  was  yet  clinging  with  the  wiry  tenacity  of  a 
desperate  kitten. 


XX. 

AFTER  Win  had  been  admonished  and  disposed  of 
the  two  friends,  left  alone,  put  their  arms  about  each 
other  and  remained  with  their  cheeks  pressed  close  for 


BARBARA  DERINO.  129 

several  moments.  Then  Barbara  said,  putting  Eunice 
from  her  and  regarding  her  with  tender  gravity, — 

"  You  look  thinner,  dearest.  Has  that  dreadful 
woman  been  wicked  to  you  ?" 

Eunice  shivered  a  little,  pushing  back  her  hair,  which 
had  been  pressed  down  about  her  forehead  by  her 
riding-hat, 

"  She  is  dreadful,"  she  said  finally,  drawing  a  long 
breath.  "  Sometimes,  when  I  have  been  alone  with 
her  and  Godfrey  for  several  weeks,  I  feel  as  though  I 
were  losing  my  identity.  They  make  me  so  unspeak 
ably  wretched.  They  are  so  narrow, — their  views  of 

life  are  so  narrow "  She  broke  off,  and,  catching 

Barbara  suddenly  to  her,  kissed  her  eagerly  on  cheeks 
and  eyes. 

"  You  are  all  the  real  life  that  I  have !"  she  exclaimed. 
"  When  I  am  with  you  I  seem  to  feel,  to  vibrate. 
Usually  I  only  exist.  I  have  been  starved  for  you, 
Barbara.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  that  I  should  die 
if  I  did  not  see  you, — and  I  have  suffered !  One  can 
go  through  so  much  in  a  few  weeks.  Such  upheavals, 
such  mental  earthquakes !"  She  began  to  walk  up  and 
down,  unbuttoning  her  habit  nervously.  Barbara  fol 
lowed  her,  and  threw  about  her  the  delicate  peignoir 
of  faint  blue  cashmere  which  she  found  on  the  sofa. 
The  white  arms  and  neck  had  a  frail  look.  Their 
net-work  of  lilac  veins  was  too  apparent  for  beauty. 
When  she  had  thrown  herself  into  an  arm-chair,  Bar 
bara  knelt  down  before  her  and  drew  off  the  small 
riding-boots. 

"  If  you  ring  for  your  maid,  we  can't  talk,"  she  had 
exclaimed  when  Eunice  protested,  so  the  latter  sub 
mitted  with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  "  What  cold  little 
feet!"  said  Barbara,  taking  one  in  both  hands,  and 


130  BARBARA   DERINQ. 

then  holding  it  against  her  breast  to  warm  it.  "  And 
what  feverish  eyes!  Eunice,  darling,  what  have  they 
been  doing  to  you  ?  Do  tell  me.  You  have  that  look 
of  having  been  through  something  written  all  over 
your  face.  Has  she — have  they — has — has  your  hus 
band- — " 

"Hush!  hush!"  whispered  Eunice,  half  starting  up. 
"  Don't  speak  so  loud,  Barbara.  He  doesn't  like  you 
as  it  is.  If  he  heard  you  say  such  a  thing  he  would 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  separate  us." 

"  A  woman-tamer,"  murmured  Barbara,  with  a  con 
temptuous  curl  of  her  arched  lips.  "  Yes,  he  does  hate 
me.  I  can  feel  it  whenever  I  go  near  him.  And  she 
does,  too !  She  strikes  me  as  terrible.  There  is  some 
thing  like  iron  about  her, — iron  sheeted  in  ice.  I  can't 
help  believing  that  these  overpious  people  are  hypo 
crites,  Eunice.  They  are  always  discovering  in  others 
the  faults  which  they  have  taken  such  care  to  conceal 
in  themselves.  She  gives  me  a  frozen  feeling, — that 
Mrs.  Crosdill.  And  then  children  have  such  instincts 
about  people.  Look  how  Win  detests  her !" 

"Yes,  both  the  children  dislike  her,"  said  Eunice, 
in  a  tired  voice.  "She  seems  to  frighten  Lois,  and 
Win  is  always  being  disagreeable  to  her.  You  can't 
think  how  I  hate  to  make  the  child  apologize  to  her, 
Barbara,  even  when  it  is  right.  She  does  take  such 
delight  in  humiliating  people.  But  you,  my  dear  one ! 
You  have  told  me  nothing  of  yourself  and  little  Fair." 

Barbara  laughed  :  "  There  is  nothing  much  to  tell. 
Fair  is  very  pretty,  and  I  don't  yet  feel  like  her  mother. 
I  don't  realize  her.  I  suppose  I  shall  after  a  while.  I 
am  not  a  delirious  mamma." 

Eunice  smiled  and  closed  her  eyes  for  a  minute  or 
two.  As  Barbara  watched  her  she  became  more  and 


BARBARA   DERI  NO.  131 

more  struck  by  the  other's  pallor  and  great  air  of 
weariness.  Seating  herself  suddenly  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  she  drew  her  against  her  breast  and  held  her 
there. 

"  Ah,  that  is  good !  that  is  good  !"  whispered  the 
poor  woman.  "You  are  so  human,  Barbara.  Your 
heart  beats  so  strong  and  fast  under  my  cheek  I  feel 
as  though  I  were  coming  to  life  in  your  arms  like  some 
poor  thing  taken  out  of  the  snow.  And  yet — I — I 
have  been  trying  to  get  dead.  I  seemed  to  be  coming 
to  life  again  there  in  Florida."  She  leaned  her  head 
back  on  Barbara's  shoulder  with  an  abrupt  movement 
and  lifted  her  blue  eyes,  which  had  that  intense,  flame- 
like  radiance  that  Barbara  had  noticed  once  or  twice 
before.  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something,  Barbara. 
I  wonder  what  you  will  say  to  me.  I  have  never 
spoken  of  such  things  even  to  a  journal  until  now. 
But  I  am  going  to  tell  you  everything." 

"  Yes,  my  sweetheart ;  tell  me  all,"  answered  Bar 
bara,  her  arms  tightening  about  the  slight  figure. 
"You  must  know  that  I  could  only  be  loving  and 
tender  to  you  no  matter  what  you  told  me." 

Eunice  turned  her  head  and  kissed  the  shoulder 
upon  which  it  rested,  then  went  on  speaking,  in  a 
quick,  even  tone  :  "  I  have  been  unhappy  ever  since  I 

was  married "  She  broke  off,  and  with  a  sort  of 

exultation  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  God !  how  good  it  is  to 
have  it  out  at  last !  What  relief!  I  felt  as  though  my 
heart  would  burst."  Barbara  went  on  stroking  the 
dark  head  with  one  powerful,  fair  hand,  but  said 
nothing.  "  That  soothes  me.  Don't  stop,  Barbara," 
murmured  Eunice;  then  she  went  on  with  what  she 
had  been  saying :  "  Yes,  I  have  been  very  unhappy 
for  eleven  years.  It's  a  long  time,  Barbara." 


132  BARBARA   DERING. 

11  Yes,  darling,  I  know." 

"  I  have  struggled  with  myself.  I  haven't  let  myself 
be  morbid.  I  have  done  my  duty, — at  least  what  I 
saw  to  be  my  duty.  I  have  tried  not  to  shirk  any 
thing.  Do  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  about 
the  lesson  of  marriage  ?  Well,  I  thought  I  had  mas 
tered  that.  Perhaps  I  felt  too  strong.  God  wanted  to 
test  me.  You  see  I  thought  I  was  dead  mentally, 
emotionally.  That  is  where  so  many  women  fall  into 
error.  They  think  the  ocean  has  dried  up,  when  it  is 
only  the  tide  that  has  gone  out.  Well,  there  is  nothing 
remarkable  or  romantic  in  my  little  one  sided  story, 
but  I — I  saw — this  winter — in  Florida — I  met  there  a 
man — you  see  I  felt  so  secure  in  my  coldness,  my 

deadness "  She  stopped  again,  and  drew  away  from 

Barbara,  covering  her  face  with  both  hands.  "  I  don't 
know  how  to  say  it  exactly,"  she  continued,  brokenly. 
"There  was  nothing.  He  was  only  a  gentle,  under 
standing,  sympathetic  friend  to  me ;  but  he  made  me 
see — no,  he  made  me  feel — what  life  could  be  with — 
with  a  nature  like  his — the  light,  the  warmth,  the 
color, — the  touch  of  soul  on  soul !  There  was  nothing 
morbid  in  what  I  felt.  'The  terrible  struggle  was 
about  my  attitude  to  Godfrey.  My  life  with  him 
seemed  such  a  corpse-like  mockery.  I  thought  if  I 
could  only  be  free, — could  only  have  my  spirit  and 
body  to  myself.  Oh,  Barbara,  I  could  be  so  happy 
only  dreaming  of  an  ideal,  even  if  I  never  actually 
possessed  it !  But  as  it  is,  I  don't  even  possess  my  own 
personality!"  She  wrung  her  hands  together  with 
such  bitter  intensity  that  one  of  her  rings  cut  into  the 
flesh  and  a  little  drop  of  blood  oozed  out  from  beneath 
the  bright  diamonds. 

"I  am  the  property  of  another,"  she  went  on,  bit- 


BARBARA  DERINO.  133 

terly,  "  and  of  one  who  has  not  the  excuse  of  intense 
feeling  in  his  tyranny.  If  I  could  feel  that  he  loved 
me, — was  jealous  even ;  but  no,  no !  it  is  not  that.  He 
merely  wishes  to  domineer,  to  compel,  to  master.  I 
cannot  understand  it.  I  cannot  understand  the  man- 
spirit,  Barbara." 

"  What  woman  can,  my  own  ?"  said  Barbara,  with 
bitterness.  "  It  is  only  when  a  man  has  something  of 
the  woman  in  him  that  he  can  understand  us  or  we 
comprehend  him." 

"  And  then,  too,  he — my  husband — is  weak !  weak ! 
weak!"  exclaimed  Eunice.  She  made  a  wild  gesture 
with  her  arms  as  though  breaking  some  restraint. 
"  Yes,  I  will  say  it.  He  is  weak.  He  is  even  afraid 
of  ine  in  some  things.  I  can't  respect  him  !  I  can't 
respect  him !"  Her  voice  was  a  wail  of  pain. 

"My  darling!  my  darling!"  said  Barbara,  "what 
misery  you  have  been  through!  How  horribly  you 
must  have  suffered !" 

"Ah,  yes!"  she  cried;  "and  the  worst  of  it  is  that 
to  them  our  suffering  has  always  something  ridiculous 
in  it.  Not  that  Godfrey  has  ever  seen  me  cry.  No 
one  has  ever  seen  me  like  this  but  you,  Barbara. 
Somehow  I  seem  to  have  come  to  the  end  of  my 
strength.  I  am  like  a  silly  bird  that  streaks  the  ceiling 
with  its  blood  in  trying  to  get  out  of  the  room  where 
it  is  captive.  I  don't  seem  to  care  for  anything  to-day 
but  my  freedom,  my  freedom,  my  freedom !  I  want  to 
be  free, — free  again!  I  want  to  be  a  girl — free — 
myself!  I  haven't  been  myself  for  eleven  years!" 

Barbara  felt  that  her  own  face  was  scorched  with 
tears.  She  could  not  speak,  and  pressed  her  friei/d's 
hand  to  her  silent  lips.  Presently  Eunice  started  to 
her  feet  and  began  moving  silently  about  the  roTm, 

12 


134  BARBARA  D BRING. 

her  eyes  wide  and  scintillating,  her  hands  wrung  ener 
getically  together. 

"  It  makes  me  wild,"  she  said,  in  an  excited  whisper. 
"I  think  what  I  have  missed,  and  I  feel  desperate. 
It  is  the  lack  of  patience  that  is  at  the  bottom  of 
nearly  all  human  misery.  If  I  had  been  more  patient, 
— not  so  romantic.  I  thought  that  Godfrey  was  the 
most  ideal  of  men.  I  took  his  silence  for  wisdom,  his 
narrowness  for  purity,  his  coldness  for  self-control. 
He  is  not  a  man.  He  is  a  thing  of  snow  and  putty. 
I  could  make  a  man  love  me !" 

Barbara  stared  at  her  utterly  astounded. 

She  had  drawn  her  slight  figure  upward  in  an  atti 
tude  of  triumphant  self-confidence,  one  round  fragile 
arm  making  an  energetic  line  above  her  head,  the 
hand  clinched,  the  finger-nails  white  in  their  convul 
sive  tension.  Her  nostrils  were  dilated,  her  lips  half 
smiling.  She  looked  strangely  young,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  there  was  an  air  of  life-knowledge  about  her 
which  made  her  seem  thoroughly  the  woman. 

"  Yes !  I  could  have  made  him  love  me, — adore  me ! 
It  is  not  only  you  splendid  creatures  who  know  how  to 
rouse  feeling  and  lavish  it  in  return.  My  life  is  a 
waste  of  snow ;  but  it  might  have  been  diiferent !  it 
might  have  been  diiferent !"  She  paused,  burying  her 
face  in  one  of  her  flowing  sleeves  and  overcome  with 
sudden  weeping. 

"  Eunice,"  said  Barbara,  going  over  beside  her,  "  you 
helped  me  so  much  when  I  was  desperate.  Can't  I 
help  you  now  ?  I  have  suffered,  too.  It  was  you  who 
taught  me  how  to  bear  it." 

"  Oh,  you !  you !"  cried  Eunice.  "  What  can  you 
really  know  of  what  I  feel  ?  You  have  had  love — per 
fect — perfectly  returned.  It  is  we  poor  wretches  who 


BARBARA   DERING.  135 

have  had  nothing  to  whom  the  future  seems  unbear 
able.  I  am  a  woman, — young,  pretty ;  yes,  pretty.  I 
have  an  ardent  heart, — a  deep  need  of  tenderness,  of 
comprehension,  of  companionship.  I  believe  in  ideal 
relations  between  men  and  women,  the  sanctity  of  the 
marriage  bond.  I  am  not  afraid  of  suffering,  mental 
or  physical.  I  have  tried  all  my  life  to  serve  God, 
to  do  my  duty,  to  exercise  self-control,  to  create  a 
worthy  character,  and  look  at  me!  look  at  me  as  I 
stand  here !  I  am  thirty  years  old  and  I  have  never 
been  loved  in  my  life !" 

Barbara  was  very  pale. 

"  I  cannot  say  empty  words  to  you,"  she  whispered 
at  last.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  that  there  is  compensation 
for  such  a  lack.  There  is  none.  But  your  mood  will 
pass.  I  have  had  many  like  it.  It  will  pass.  You 
will  see  that  there  is  no  use  kicking  against  the  pricks. 
You  will  come  back  to  your  steadfast  self, — to  your 
calm,  beautiful  mastery  of  life.  You  are  so  above  it 
all,  Eunice, — and — and — I  would  give  my  very  life  for 
you,  darling!" 

Eunice  came  towards  her  holding  out  both  hands. 
She  kissed  her  solemnly  on  the  forehead. 

"  You  are  the  greatest  blessing  my  life  has  ever  had," 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  think  it  was  because,  in 
spite  of  my  barren  existence,  I  believed  in  great  friend 
ship,  in  affinity  of  soul  with  soul,  that  God  sent  you  to 
me.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  that  we  create  God  as 
much  as  He  creates  us.  If  we  strongly  believe  in  Him, 
He  exists  for  us.  If  we  turn  from  Him  with  convic 
tion,  He  ceases  to  be.  I  never  lost  my  faith  in  friend 
ship,  and  now  I  have  you." 

"  And  you !"  cried  Barbara.  "  What  are  you  to  me  ? 
The  very  essence  of  compensation!  The  realization 


136  BARBARA  DERING. 

of  my  ideal  of  a  woman's  highest  feeling  for  a  woman ! 
Ah,  Eunice !  we  are  fond  of  clamoring  about  the  higher 
education  of  women,  but  it  is  the  higher  education  of 
men  that  is  needed.  We  understand  them  for  the 
most  part,  and  why  ?  Because  we  individualize,  while 
they  generalize.  We  study  one  especial  man,  and  so 
learn  to  comprehend  him  and  his  needs.  We  say  he 
likes  this  or  that,  does  thus  and  so, — will  need  one 
thing  or  be  angered  at  another.  Men  say,  '  Women 
are  all  like  this  one!'  How  one  longs  for  a  woman 
Buddha  sometimes  !  It  is  that  feeHng  of  the  lack  of 
comprehension  in  men  that  has  done  so  much  towards 
creating  Mariolatry,  I  think.  Sometimes  it  does  chance 
that  a  husband  comprehends  his  wife  as  an  individual 
being,  and  then  the  marriage  is  genuinely  a  mar 
riage." 

"Ah,  Barbara!  Barbara!"  moaned  poor  Eunice, 
putting  up  her  hands  as  though  to  ward  off  some 
sharp  blow.  "Don't  tell  me  of  the  Brownings  or 
Charles  Kingsley  and  his  wife!  Sometimes  I  am 
tempted  to  think  that  they  only  had  a  double  lock  on 
their  skeleton's  closet,  and  heard  the  rattle  of  his 
dancing  all  the  same.  Is  there  such  a  thing  as  a  happy 
marriage  ?  Do  you  think  so,  Barbara  ?  You  say  your 
first  marriage  was  perfect,  but  then  it  wasn't  more 
than  a  honeymoon !  It  lasted  such  a  little  while ! 
Perfect  marriage  means  the  survival  of  undisturbed 
devotion  through  the  daily  friction  of  years.  I  cannot 
believe  in  it.  I  cannot !  I  cannot !" 

Barbara  made  no  reply,  and  presently  Eunice  asked, 
abruptly,  "  Do  you  know  any  happy  marriages  among 
your  acquaintances,  Barbara  ?" 

"  I  knew  one,"  answered  Barbara,  sadly, — "  a  young 
minister.  He  was  very  happy  in  his  marriage.  He 


BARBARA  DERING.  137 

had  been  married  six  years  when  his  wife  died.  That 
was  four  years  ago." 

"  And  he  has  not  married  again  ?"  said  Eunice,  in 
credulously.  Barbara  shook  her  head. 

"  What  a  wonderful  man  1"  exclaimed  Eunice. 

"  Yes ;  I  told  him  so  once." 

"  But  he  will  in  time,  I  suppose,"  said  Eunice,  with 
chill  bitterness.  "  How  strange  it  seems  that  men  and 
women  cannot  be  satisfied  with  one  complete  love,  no 
matter  how  short  a  while  it  lasts !" 

Barbara  covered  her  eyes  with  one  hand, — the  other 
was  clasped  tightly  about  Eunice's  riding-cap,  which 
she  had  lifted  from  the  floor.  A  sense  of  great  pain 
and  humiliation  was  upon  her.  She  felt  that  Eunice 
had  spoken  without  thinking,  but  from  her  heart.  At 
last  she  looked  up. 

"  I  failed  there,"  she  said,  gently.  "  But  our  own 
failings  bring  us  so  close  to  others.  It  seems  to  me 
that  in  noble  natures  great  mistakes  are  always  the 
stepping-stones  to  great  virtues." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  murmured  Eunice  ;  but  her  eyes  had  an 
absent-minded  look.  Presently  she  broke  forth  again : 

"  What  I  have  felt  from  the  first  is  so  terrible.  It 
has  taken  all  the  poetry — the  kindred  spirit  out  of  life 
for  me.  Sometimes  when  I  have  gone  to  the  woods 
and  fields  for  consolation,  the  trees  seemed  to  me  no 
more  than  the  glaring  canvas  in  a  theatre,  the  sky  like 
a  bit  of  cloth  painted  blue  with  holes  punched  in  it  to 
mimic  stars.  I  was  loved  with  the  deliberation  of 
a  machine.  Only  the  most  vivid  and  intense  love  can 
consecrate  the  bond  of  marriage.  I  was  the  bride  of 
a  wooden  puppet,  whose  love-words  flowed  forth  like 
sawdust,  and  who  took  occasion  to  explain  to  me,  be 
fore  our  honeymoon  was  over,  that  the  love  between 

12* 


138  BARBARA  DERI  NO. 

men  and  women  was,  on  the  whole,  a  concession  to  the 
vulgarity  of  nature  and  a  thing  never  to  be  alluded  to 
even  indirectly.  How  I  have  loathed  it !  I  longed  to 
kill  myself.  I  questioned  God.  My  body  seemed  to 
me  a  vile,  unworthy  thing.  It  was  you,  you,  Barbara, 
who  taught  me  to  see  that  high  passion  is  a  consecra 
tion, — that  it  is  only  lukewarm  sensuality  that  dese 
crates."  She  pushed  her  thick  hair  back  from  her 
forehead  and  held  it  there  for  a  moment  or  two,  then 
went  on  : 

"  I  think  that  if  I  were  to  see  Win  married  to  one 
of  the  average  young  men  of  to-day,  of  whom  poor 
Godfrey  has  such  a  horror, — one  who  is  proud  of  having 
had  his  amours,  his  mistresses,  his  club-dinners  ending 
in  drunkenness," — she  laughed  bitterly, — "  if  I  were  to 
see  that  I  should  be  as  bad  as  a  murderess,  Barbara. 
I  should  pray  God  to  kill  him.  I  should  be  capable 
of  killing  him  myself.  I  would  rather  see  her  dead 
now, — my  precious  baby,  all  my  own,  in  her  clean  little 
coffin, — than  the  miserable  wife  of  a  creature  who  had 
worn  off  the  edge  of  all  feeling  in  picking  the  locks 
of  pleasure.  Who  would  tell  his  wife  coarse  anecdotes, 
and  get  angry  when  she  cried  instead  of  laughing. 

Who  would God  help  me !  my  brain  seems  in  a 

fever!"  She  sank  suddenly  upon  the  sofa,  her  lips 
white.  As  Barbara  came  over  beside  her  she  turned 
upon  her  a  look  of  piteous  appeal.  "  Life  and  love 
and  marriage  should  be  so  beautiful,  Barbara,"  she  said, 
whispering.  "  Why  is  it  all  so  desperately  sad  ?" 

"  It  is  because  men  and  women  do  not  understand 
each  other,  I  think,"  answered  Barbara,  "  and  will  not 
realize  that  God  having  made  the  world  pronounced  it 
good.  Instead  of  trying  to  put  ourselves  in  sympathy 
with  Nature,  we  flatter  ourselves  that  we  can  improve 


BARBARA  DERING.  139 

upon  her.  It  seems  to  me  that  everything  is  too  much 
in  extremes.  Take  Tolstoi  and  Swinburne,  for  ex 
ample.  One  lauds  even  vice  if  it  has  a  sensual  beauty. 
The  other  preaches  that  even  the  highest  form  of 
passion  between  men  and  women  is  unnatural  and 
should  be  suppressed  as  much  as  possible.  We  cannot 
seem  to  reconcile  the  two  elements.  If  we  could  only 
do  that,  it  seems  to  me  that  life  would  be  well  worth 
living." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Eunice,  with  hard  deliberation,  "  I 
don't  think  that  life  could  ever  seem  very  well  worth 
living  to  me  again.  You  see  I  am  married  to  a  man 
who  let  me  know,  before  the  first  year  of  our  marriage 
had  passed,  that  he  considered  the  most  stupid  and 
petty-minded  girl  above  me,  merely  on  account  of  her 
maidenhood.  It  seemed  to  me,  in  that  moment,  that 
I  could  be  crucified,  oh !  so  willingly,  if  it  could  save 
women  from  such  torture." 

Barbara's  face  grew  suddenly  radiant.  "Eunice, 
darling,  let  us  live  for  them!"  she  exclaimed.  "Let 
us  teach  Win  and  Lois  and  Fair  to  live  for  them, 
too !  Oh,  if  I  could  only  write  great  poems  and  books 
to  help  them !  But,  at  least,  I  can  live  my  life,  so  that 
those  who  come  in  contact  with  it  will  be  helped  and 
comforted.  Let  me  try  to  comfort  you  now,  my  dear, 
dear  heart.  Rest  on  my  great  love  for  you.  Think 
how  I  honor  and  respect  and  comprehend  you.  As 
long  as  we  can  be  to  each  other  what  we  are  life 
holds  sweetness  for  us.  Look  how  you  have  helped 
me  to  conquer  myself, — to  realize  my  duty !  I  have 
accepted  my  lot.  I  am  content.  I  would  not  change 
one  circumstance  in  my  fate  even  if  I  had  the  power. 
It  seems  to  me,  dearest,  that  the  most  comforting 
words  ever  said  were,  '  All  things  work  together  for 


140  BARBARA   DERINQ. 

good  to  them  that  love  God.'  And  more  and  more  1 
believe  that  our  love  for  God  can  only  come  to  Him 
acceptably  through  our  love  for  each  other.  Do  not 
think  that  you  '  have  come  to  the  end  of  your  strength.' 
It  is  only  that,  for  the  moment,  you  are  overstrained. 
It  has  been  too  much  for  you,  these  lonely  weeks 
spent  with  two  such  alien  natures.  Really,  darling,  I 
should  be  quite  mad  if  I  had  had  to  nurse  Mrs.  Cros- 
dill  through  an  attack  of  rheumatic  bronchitis.  She's 
terrible  enough  in  comparative  health, — but  ill !  The 
strain  must  have  been  almost  unbearable.  But  now 
that  you  have  come  back  to  me  all  will  get  easier, 
more  natural !  We  shall  have  such  drives  and  walks 
together!  Such  hours  of  beautiful  companionship! 
Cheer  up,  my  blessing,  and  when  you  feel  that  your 
life  is  objectless  and  dreary,  think  of  your  Barbara, 
and  how  you  have  helped  her  and  are  helping  her  all 
the  time." 

As  Barbara  went  on  speaking,  Eunice's  expression 
grew  very  wistful  and  tender.  Her  blue  eyes  were 
soft  with  tears.  Then  she  framed  Barbara's  glowing, 
beautiful  face  in  her  thin  white  hands,  and  said,  in  the 
voice  of  one  who  makes  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving, — 

"  My  own,  dear,  great-hearted  Barbara,  I  am  so  glad 
when  I  think  of  how  I  loved  you  and  believed  in  you 
against  all  the  world !" 


XXI. 

EUNICE  was  ten  minutes  late  for  dinner  that  even 
ing,  and  when  she  came  down-stairs  Bransby  and  Mrs. 
Crosdill  were  already  seated  at  the  table.  Bransby 


BARBARA  DERING.  141 

was  one  of  those  men  who  are  made  profoundly  in 
dignant  by  unpunctuality  at  meals,  and  to-day  this 
feeling  was  accentuated  by  the  knowledge  that  Bar 
bara  Dering  was  the  probable  cause  of  Eunice's  tardi 
ness.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  disagreeable  flattening 
of  the  lips  as  she  entered,  while  his  sister  continued  to 
push  the  morsels  of  food  about  in  her  plate  with  an  air 
of  tacit  approval  of  his  unspoken  words. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  Mrs.  Dering  whom  I  heard  whis 
tling  down  the  lawn  just  now  like  an  unmannerly 
school-boy,  although  she  knows  perfectly  well  that  we 
dine  at  seven,  and  that  I  have  a  rooted  objection  to 
your  being  late  for  meals  ?"  These  sentences  were 
uttered  in  a  crisp,  grating  tone  that  one  would  use  to  a 
naughty  child. 

"It  was  not  Barbara's  fault  that  I  was  late,"  said 
Eunice,  quietly.  "  I  did  not  feel  well.  I  dressed 
slowly." 

Bransby's  disagreeable  expression  increased. 

"  Another  thing  that  I  have  noticed,"  he  observed 
in  his  measured  voice,  "is  the  air  of  suppressed,  I 
might  say  morbid,  excitement  which  you  have  after 
one  of  your  seances  with  Mrs.  Dering.  And  I  might  as 
well  tell  you  now  that  she  has  made  exactly  the  same 
impression  upon  Lydia  that  she  made  upon  me  the 
first  moment  that  I  saw  her." 

"  Exactly,"  observed  Mrs.  Crosdill,  leaning  back  in 
her  chair  and  playing  with  an  ostentatiously  simple 
ring  of  green  enamel  which  she  wore  above  her  wed 
ding-ring. 

Eunice  said  nothing  in  reply  to  this,  but  poured 
herself  a  glass  of  sherry. 

"  You  agreed  with  me  about  her  appearance,  too, 
did  you  not,  Lydia  ?" 


142  BARBARA  DERING. 

"  I  thought  her  an  extremely  sensual  type  of  a  cer 
tain  vulgar  conception  of  good  looks,"  replied  Mrs. 
Crosdill,  briefly.  "I  detest  that  dyed-looking  hair, 
and  her  lips  are  almost  as  thick  as  a  negro's  j  still,  I 
suppose  she  is  undoubtedly  what  some  people  would 
call  handsome.  You  think  her  handsome,  I  believe, 
Eunice  ?" 

Eunice,  who  was  drawing  patterns  on  the  damask 
table-cloth  with  the  point  of  her  knife,— another  thing 
which  always  roused  Bransby's  disapproval, — answered 
rather  slowly, — 

"  To  me  Mrs.  Dering  is  the  most  beautiful  woman 
it  is  possible  to  imagine," 

Mrs.  Crosdill  gave  an  indescribable  smile,  and  Bransby 
exclaimed,  rather  explosively  for  him, — 

"  I  must  really  ask  you  not  to  express  yourself  with 
such  intense  exaggeration,  my  dear  Eunice.  I  should 
be  very  much  mortified  for  any  of  my  friends  to  think 
Mrs.  Dering  your  ideal  of  beauty.  It  smacks  of  a 
certain — er— I  might  say  lack  of  refinement  in  your 
nature,  which  I  am  sure  is  not  there." 

"Perhaps,"  said  his  wife,  "our  ideas  of  refinement 
are  different." 

Bransby  flushed  and  darted  a  glance  at  his  sister, 
who  responded  with  a  look  of  pitying  sympathy. 

"  It  pains  me  very  much  to  think  that  our  ideas  on 
any  subject  so  important  could  possibly  be  opposed," 
he  said  at  last,  with  great  stiffness. 

Again  Eunice  made  no  reply.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  sitting  between  two  human  crabs,  each  of 
whom  would  give  her  a  nip  as  long  as  she  remained 
where  she  was.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  endur 
ance,  and  she  called  up  all  her  self-control  to  help  her 
through  what  she  foresaw  would  be  an  almost  unen- 


BARBARA   DERING.  143 

durable  hour  and  a  half.  Bransby  waited  as  though 
for  her  answer,  and  finding  that  she  remained  silent, 
observed,  with  increasing  irritation, — 

"  I  have  been  intensely  displeased  to  hear  that  Wini 
fred  has  again  been  impertinent  to  her  aunt.  If  this 
is  not  stopped,  I  shall  have  to  take  steps  in  the  matter 
myself." 

"  Winifred  apologized  to  you,  did  she  not,  Lydia  ?" 
said  Eunice,  coldly,  lifting  a  pair  of  ice-blue  eyes  to 
Mrs.  CrosdilPs  prominent  brown  ones. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  cannot  say  that  I  approve  of  a  system 
which  permits  a  child  to  be  as  insolent  as  she  chooses 
on  the  condition  that  she  buys  herself  off  from  pun 
ishment  afterwards  by  an  apology." 

"  Yes,"  put  in  Bransby,  "  Lydia  is  absolutely  correct. 
I  do  not  think  that  you  have  any  ideas  of  true  disci 
pline  whatever,  my  dear  Eunice.  You  are  altogether 
too  tender-hearted." 

Mrs.  Crosdill  again  turned  her  green  ring,  and  said, 
deliberately, — 

"  What  Winifred  needs  is  a  good  whipping  now  and 
then,  and  afterwards  to  be  shut  into  a  darkened  room." 

"  Yes,  that  seems  to  me  a  very  good  solution  of  the 
problem,"  agreed  Bransby,  darting  an  oblique  glance 
at  his  wife. 

But  Eunice  did  not  look  at  him.  She  fixed  her  eyes 
again  upon  those  of  Mrs.  Crosdill ;  the  dilated  pupils 
made  them  seem  a  dark  violet. 

"  I  wish  no  suggestions  from  any  one  about  the 
disciplining  of  my  children,"  she  said,  in  her  clear, 
exquisitely-modulated  voice.  "  I  hope  you  won't  give 
yourself  useless  trouble  in  making  any  more,  Lydia." 

"  Certainly,  if  I  am  not  to  be  allowed  to  interest 
myself  in  my  brother's  children,  I  must  accept  the 


144  BARBARA  DERING. 

alternative,  I  suppose.  You  shall  not  be  annoyed 
further." 

But  Bransby  was  now  in  a  tremor  of  suppressed 
anger. 

"  You  and  I  will  discuss  this  matter  later,  Eunice," 
he  said,  in  a  stifled  tone. 

Eunice  made  a  quiet  movement  of  assent. 

After  five  minutes  of  silence  Bransby  broke  out 
again,— 

"  The  more  I  see  of  that  woman  the  more  I  dislike 
her.  She  must  certainly  have  some  mysterious  power 
over  you,  Eunice.  Otherwise  your  feeling  for  her  is 
inexplicable." 

"  Hypnotism,"  suggested  Mrs.  Crosdill,  softly. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  believe  you 
have  solved  the  problem!  There  has  alwaj^s  seemed 
something  unnatural  about  the  whole  matter  to  me. 
You  have  really  given  me  new  light,  my  dear  Lydia. 
I  am  convinced  that  Mrs.  Dering  has  some  hypnotic 
power  over  Eunice.  How  can  one  possibly  account 
for  her  infatuation  in  any  other  way  ?  She,  a  woman 
of  delicate  breeding,  shrinking  refinement,  almost  super- 
sensitive  feelings,  suddenly  to  form  an  intimate  friend 
ship,  and  against  my  wishes,  too,  for  this  showy,  hoi- 
denish,  forward,  exaggerated  woman,  who  wears  that 
low-necked  style  of  dress  which  is  a  disgrace  to  modern 
civilization,  and  actually  chastises  her  dogs  with  her 
own  hands !" 

"  Oh,  Godfrey !  Come !  I  cannot  believe  that !  You 
must  be  mistaken  about  that !"  cried  his  sister,  almost 
giving  vent  to  a  judicious  shriek  of  horror. 

Eunice's  expression,  which  had  first  been  one  of  con 
trolled  anger,  subsided  into  an  air  of  extreme  boredom. 

"  I  can't  see  why  you  should  both  continue  to  discuss 


BARBARA   DERING.  145 

a  subject  which  seems  so  painful  to  you,"  she  said, 
finally,  seeing  that  they  seemed  waiting  for  her  to 
speak,  "  I  am  assuredly  not  going  to  attempt  a  defence 
of  Barbara.  That  I  love  and  respect  and  admire  her 
with  all  my  heart  is  a  quite  sufficient  reason  to  myself 
for  what  you  choose  to  think  my  misplaced  friendship." 

"  I  do  not  consider  that  at  all  a  becoming  way  for 
you  to  speak  to  me,  Eunice,"  said  her  husband,  color 
ing  darkly.  "However,  if  you  admire  Mrs.  Bering 
so  intensely,  I  can  understand  it,  for  she  treats  her 
husband  with  unmitigated  disrespect  on  the  least 
occasion." 

"  She  looks  like  a  very  self-assertive  person,"  put  in 
Mrs.  Crosdill.  "  There  is  something  very  unfeminine 
about  her." 

"  At  least  she  is  not  a  hypocrite,"  returned  Eunice, 
always  in  the  same  even  voice.  "  I  am  beginning  to 
think  that  most  very  vociferously  conventional  and 
pious  people  are  hypocrites.  How  astonished  some  of 
them  will  be  when,  as  Christ  said,  they  see  the  publi 
cans  and  harlots  going  into  heaven  before  them !" 

"  Eunice !"  cried  Bransby.  His  face  had  the  same 
convulsed  look  that  his  sister's  had  worn  during  her  fit 
of  anger  with  Winifred.  He  was  silent  a  moment, 
gripping  the  edge  of  the  table  with  both  hands.  Mrs. 
Crosdill  had  shrunk  back  in  her  chair,  and  was  look 
ing  down  into  her  black-crape  lap  as  though  faint  with 
wounded  modesty. 

"  That  I  should  live  to  hear  my  wife — my  wife— use 
such  a  word!"  stammered  Bransby  at  last.  "It  is 
horrible !" 

"  Christ  used  it,"  said  Eunice,  mildly. 

Mrs.  Crosdill  made  a  movement  as  though  to  rise. 
"  If  there  is  going  to  be  a  blasphemous  discussion  I  beg 
o  k  13 


146  BARBARA   DERING. 

that  you  will  excuse  me,  Godfrey,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  addressing  herself  solely  to  her  brother. 

"  I  have  said  nothing  blasphemous,"  returned  Eunice, 
speaking  sternly  for  the  first  time,  "and  I  shall  be 
very  glad  for  you  to  leave  the  table  if  you  intend  treat 
ing  me  with  the  rudeness  that  you  have  used  to  me 
since  I  entered  the  room." 

Mrs.  Crosdill  stared  at  her,  too  astonished  to  take 
advantage  of  the  permission  that  had  been  granted. 
During  the  eleven  years  of  Eunice's  married  life  she 
had  never  spoken  with  such  decided  authority  on  any 
subject.  Bransby,  whose  stinging  irritation  was  in 
creasing  in  proportion  to  his  sense  of  powerlessness, 
actually  brought  his  doubled  hand  down  on  the  table 
with  some  force,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  then,  that  /consider  it  blasphemous 
to  compare  yourself  to  Christ,  or  to  choose  such  ex 
pressions  for  repetition!  Bo  you  mean  to  compare 
yourself  to  Him  ?" 

"It  is  what  we  are  told  to  do.  He  is  our  model. 
We  are  supposed  to  imitate  Him  as  closely  as  possible. 
It  is  the  only  way  in  which  we  can  tell  how  far  we 
have  progressed  in  goodness.  Everything  is  com 
parative." 

"Do  you  mean  to  excuse  that — that  obscene  word 
which  you  used  just  now  ?" 

"  I  don't  consider  the  word  obscene,  Godfrey.  It  is 
a  name  for  a  certain  class  of  women,  just  as  '  gentle 
woman'  or  '  prude'  is  for  others.  It  seems  to  me  rather 
strained  that  before  my  husband  and  his  married  sister 
I  cannot  talk  frankly  of  any  recognized  fact." 

Mrs.  Crosdill,  who  had  recovered  herself,  here  put 
in  shrilly, — 

"  I  beg,  at  least,  that  you  will  remember  that  /  ob- 


BARBARA  D BRING.  147 

ject  strenuously  to  any  such  facts  being  discussed  in 
my  presence.  I  am  not  one  of  the  modern  married 
women  who  make  the  holy  estate  of  matrimony  an 
excuse  for  all  sorts  of  indecencies  and  immoral  con 
versations.  I  feel  as  polluted  by  low  and  vulgar  ex 
pressions  as  though  I  were  still  a  maiden,  and  I  only 
hope  that  you  will  give  me  warning  the  next  time  you 
intend  to  use  such  language." 

Eunice  merely  gave  her  a  cool  glance,  and  said, 
slowly, — 

"  You  are  very  trying,  Lydia." 

"  I  can  say  the  same  thing  of  you,  most  emphatically, 
Eunice,"  retorted  Mrs.  Crosdill,  angrily.  u  You  show 
no  consideration  for  my  feelings  whatever.  You  have 
certainly  changed  in  many  ways.  I  suppose  it  is  this 
intimacy  with  Mrs.  Dering.  You  have  always  been 
easily  influenced." 

"I  think  we  had  better  not  continue  this  painful 
conversation,"  said  Bransby  with  some  hurry.  "  It  is 
not  only  intensely  disagreeable  in  itself,  but  it  prevents 
digestion." 

"  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  remain  silent,"  asserted 
his  sister,  curving  her  long  neck. 

The  rest  of  the  meal  was  passed  without  a  word, 
and  as  soon  as  it  was  over  Eunice  went  up  to  her  own 
room.  She  had  a  lamp  brought  in,  and  drawing  her 
favorite  chair  to  the  fire,  sat  with  her  hands  clasped 
over  a  little  volume  of  Wordsworth's  poems,  trying  to 
smooth  her  frayed  nerves  and  to  find  a  solution  for  her 
saltless  domestic  life.  She  was  just  reading  to  herself, 
in  a  sort  of  sobbing  whisper,  those  exquisite  lines  from 
the  sonnet  to  a  skylark, — 

"  Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam, 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  heaven  and  home," — 


148  BARBARA  D BRING. 

when  the  door  opened  slowly  and  her  husband  entered 
the  room. 

This  bedroom  of  Eunice  had  something  of  her  own 
delicate  personal  charm.  Its  windows,  curtained  with 
a  semi-transparent  silk  of  a  purplish  lilac,  looked  out 
upon  a  haze  of  winter  trees,  accentuated  here  and 
there  by  dark  evergreens.  The  walls  were  panelled 
with  wood  faintly  tinted  with  the  same  rosy  lavender. 
Silver  sconces  held  clusters  of  wax  candles  on  either 
side  of  the  toilet-mirror,  which  was  framed  in  silver 
and  ivory,  while  one  of  its  many  doors,  half  hidden  by 
its  lilac  draperies,  consisted  of  a  large  pier-glass.  The 
bed  was  of  carved  white  wood  ;  the  chairs  daintily 
covered  with  flowered  satiny  stuffs.  In  the  air  was  a 
faint  odor  of  heliotrope,  and  on  the  walls  charming 
water-colors,  chiefly  of  spring  and  winter  landscapes. 
In  this  matter  of  arranging  her  own  room  Bransby 
had  given  her  entire  freedom,  and  it  was  the  one  spot 
in  the  great  bare  house  which  she  really  loved.  She 
started  to  her  feet  as  he  came  in,  her  entire  surprise  at 
this  visit  written  in  her  widely-opened  eyes  and  parted 
lips.  Something  in  her  very  astonishment  irritated 
him  still  more. 

"  This  heavy  perfume  is  stifling !"  he  exclaimed, 
looking  about  him.  "No  wonder  you  look  pale.  I 
cannot  think  that  such  an  atmosphere  is  healthy." 

Eunice  drew  herself  together  with  a  start.  She  be 
came  once  more  the  quiet  image  which  he  had  learned 
to  regard  with  suavity  as  the  highly  desirable  result 
of  his  conjugal  teachings. 

"  Shall  I  open  a  window  ?"  she  asked,  in  her  soft  voice. 

"  No,  no ;  of  course  not,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "  The 
wind  is  blowing  a  hurricane  j  it  will  be  bitter  cold  by 
to-morrow." 


BARBARA  DER1NO.  149 

"  How  sad  for  the  poor  colored  people !"  Eunice  could 
not  help  exclaiming.  "They  suffer  so  terribly  from 
the  cold,  and  they  have  that  world-wide  horror  of  the 
poor-house.  I  was  thinking  only  yesterday,"  growing 
suddenly  animated  in  her  momentary  self-forgetfulness, 
"  how  nice  it  would  be  if  we  could  build,  as  it  were,  a 
little  village  of  cabins,  Godfrey,  say  each  to  consist  of 
one  room,  neatly  furnished,  and  then  to  rent  them  out 
at  merely  nominal  sums,  say  a  dollar  a  month,  just  to 
keep  the  poor  souls  from  feeling  that  they  were  living 
entirely  on  charity.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  prac 
tical  ?" 

"  I  must  say  that  I  do  not,"  replied  Bransby.  "  Who 
would  provide  their  food?" 

"  We  might  easily  make  an  arrangement  for  that." 

"  But  why  separate  cottages  ?  Why  not  one  large, 
comfortable  building  ?" 

"  No ;  it  is  just  that  that  I  wish  to  avoid.  I  don't 
think  anyone  realizes  how  most  people  resent  living  in 
herds.  Why,  I  was  talking  with  one  of  the  old,  old 
slaves  the  other  day,  and  she  was  telling  me  of  how 
she  had  been  depressed  merely  by  paying  a  visit  to  the 
poor-house.  '  Oh,  honey,'  she  said  to  me, '  it  was  drefful ! 
All  dem  pore  creeturs  so  mizzubul  en  den  jes'  'bleged 
tuh  be  mixed  up  tugedder!  Teared  tuh  me  heaven 
would'n'  be  all  we  hoped  fuh  ef  we  could'n'  git  out  o' 
dee  crowd.'  Just  the  feeling  of  self-respecting  indi 
viduality  that  it  would  give  them  to  have  their  one 
little  room  to  themselves  would  be  a  blessing  beyond 
words  to  them.  If  I  could  do  it  I  would  pull  down 
every  « poor-house'  in  the  world  and  build  little  villages 
in  their  stead.  Besides,  the  mere  name  is  an  insult. 
I " 

"  Excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  Eunice,"  here  put 
13* 


150  BARBARA   DERING. 

in  Bransby,  "  but  I  came  to  speak  on  other  very  impor 
tant  matters  with  you.  I  will  be  happy  to  discuss  this 
one  to-morrow." 

"Certainly,"  she  said,  with  a  sensation  of  inward 
shrivelling. 

Bransby  drew  up  another  chair  and  sat  down  oppo 
site  her.  His  senses  were  not  in  the  least  roused  by 
the  warm,  glowing  room,  or  by  the  loveliness  of  the 
woman  before  him,  whose  fair  throat  emerged  exquis 
itely  from  its  collar  of  silver-fox  fur,  and  the  scarlet  of 
whose  lips  was  accentuated  by  the  pressure  of  a  slight 
forefinger  against  them.  The  streak  of  sensuality 
which  exists  in  most  cold  natures,  and  which  was  not 
absent  from  his,  had  never  been  touched  in  the  slightest 
degree  by  his  wife.  As  they  sat  studying  each  other, 
while  apparently  gazing  into  the  fluttering  blaze  of 
the  wood-fire,  a  sense  of  antagonism  began  gathering 
like  a  slow  but  powerful  electric  current  in  the  heart 
of  husband  and  wife,  he  resenting  the  fact  that  after 
years  of  colorless  submission  she  had  suddenly  opposed 
him,  she  recalling  with  cold  scorn  detail  after  detail 
of  his  bloodless  tyranny. 

Her  advantage  in  the  interview  which  was  about  to 
take  place  lay  in  her  thorough  knowledge  of  him  and 
his  theories,  while  her  real  nature  was  as  undreamed 
by  him  as  though  it  did  not  exist,  and  the  ideas  of  life 
which  had  been  accumulating  almost  unconsciously 
in  her  mind  year  by  year  she  had  never  expressed  to 
him  or  to  any  other. 

"  I  hope  you  will  believe  that  my  intention  in  what 
I  am  going  to  say  to  you  is  wholly  a  generous  one,"  he 
began  at  last  a  little  nervously.  "  I  am  sure  that  you 
will  admit  that  whatever  things  I  have  opposed  you 
in  have  been  with  an  idea  of  your  good." 


BARBARA   DERING.  151 

"  I  admit  that  you  have  thought  them  for  my  good, 
Godfrey.  I  believe  that  you  are  a  thoroughly  con 
scientious  man." 

"  Indeed  ?"  asked  Bransby,  nettled.  "  I  am  glad  that 
you  do  me  that  justice.  However,  to  come  frankly  to 
the  point,  it  is  about  this — this  intimacy  of  yours  with 
Mrs.  Bering  that  I  wish  to  speak  to  you."  He  paused 
as  if  expecting  her  to  make  some  reply,  but  she  merely 
said,  after  a  moment  or  two, — 

"  Go  on.     I  am  listening." 

"  You  know  my  opinion  of  Mrs.  Bering,"  then  con 
tinued  Bransby ;  "  I  consider  her  a  coarse,  unbridled 
woman,  who  can  only  injure  so  delicate  a  nature  as 
yours  by  contact.  It's  the  old  story  of  the  porcelain 
jug  and  the  iron  pot  floating  down-stream  together. 
I  notice  after  only  one  year  of  your  intercourse  with 
her  a  great,  a  serious  change  in  you.  I  do  not  think 
you  know  how  this  knowledge  has  grieved  me." 

"  In  what  way  am  I  changed,  Godfrey  ?" 

"  Well,  for  one  thing,  your  manner  has  grown  more 
assured,  more  self-assertive.  You  do  not  hesitate  to 
disagree  with  me  before  my  sister  and  openly  at  the 
table.  You  oppose  your  views  to  mine  almost  with 
an  air  of  boldness.  In  a  word,  you  have  lost  some  of 
that  subtle,  exquisite  aroma  of  true  femininity  which 
is  as  fine  and  as  easily  brushed  off  as  the  down  on  a 
moth's  wing.  I  feel  that  you  are  growing  away  from 
me  and  all  my  views  of  life, — that  we  are  getting 
totally  out  of  sympathy." 

"  And  when  were  we  ever  in  sympathy,  Godfrey  ?" 

Bransby  started  and  lifted  his  large,  pale-brown 
eyes  to  hers. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  think  we  were  ever 
in  sympathy, — you  and  I?"  she  went  on  before  he 


152  BARBARA   DERING. 

could  speak.  "Have  you  ever  looked  out  the  exact 
meaning  of  the  word  '  sympathy'  ?  I  have.  It  means, 
among  other  things, '  an  agreement  of  affections,  likings, 
tastes,  temperament,  pleasure,  sufferings.'  Have  we 
ever  had  this  agreement  of  feeling?  Our  affections 
have  never  been  for  the  same  people,  nor  our  likings 
for  the  same  objects.  Surely,  our  tastes  are  as  opposed 
as  the  poles !  Tolstoi  is  your  master,  your  ideal ;  you 
have  often  told  me  so.  I  adore  music.  I  was  even 
gifted  with  a  good  voice.  You  forbade  me  to  cultivate 
this  gift  except  in  the  most  weary,  commonplace  di 
rections.  You  told  me  that  such  music  as  that  of 
Beethoven,  Bach,  Mozart,  Gounod,  Wagner,  was  im 
moral,  evil,  unduly  exciting,  and  morbid.  You  scarcely 
liked  me  to  sing  my  children  to  sleep.  The  birds  were 
free  to  sing.  God  had  given  them  voices,  and  they 
had  no  one  to  silence  them  ;  but  I  was  your  wife,  you 
were  my  husband,  having  authority.  You  silenced  me. 
You  took  away  from  me  this  supreme  and  holy  pleas 
ure.  You  never  doubted  that  you  were  right,  never 
questioned  that  God  had  been  mistaken  in  bestowing 
on  me  the  talent  for  music.  As  for  our  temperaments, 
you  do  not  even  know  mine.  When  a  woman  finds 
that  the  man  whom  she  has  married  is  cold,  phlegmatic, 
un  affection  ate  in  his  nature,  do  you  suppose  that  she 
is  going  to  let  him  see  that  hers  is  warm,  thirstily- 
loving?  Is  it  to  be  imagined  that  when  her  husband 
tells  his  wife  of  a  fortnight  that  passion  is  an  outcome  of 
fallen  human  nature  and  is  only  acceded  to  in  moments 
when  the  lower  self  is  uppermost, — can  you  possibly 
dream  that  after  that  she  will  not  strive  with  every 
nerve  to  hide  from  him  the  fact  that  she  possesses  one 
spark  of  passionate  feeling  ?  And  yet  you  disciples 
of  Tolstoi  do  not  hesitate,  after  carefully  explaining 


BARBARA   DERING.  153 

how  degrading  is  this  fact  of  man's  desire,  to  condemn 
the  women  you  have  made  your  wives  to  submit  to 
every  condition  of  marriage,  and  to  bear  your  children 
whom  you  do  not  love  when  they  are  born." 

"  Do  not  love  my  children !"  echoed  Bransby,  catch 
ing  at  the  one  assertion  in  this  outpour  of  long  pent-up 
feeling  which  he  could  undertake  to  refute  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment.  "  I  not  care  for  my  children  !  You 
must  be  beside  yourself.  When  have  I  refused  my 
children  any  pleasure,  any  advantage  ?  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  to-night,  Eunice  ?  Are  you  mad  ?" 

She  was  of  a  brilliant  pallor.  Her  eyes  seemed 
black ;  but  she  spoke  in  the  same  rapid,  intensely  quiet 
tone, — 

"  No,  Godfrey,  I  am  not  mad.  I  think  I  am  quite 
sane  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  seem  to  see  every 
thing  so  clearly.  As  for  your  not  refusing  your  chil 
dren  any  pleasure  or  advantage,  the  essence  of  love  is 
more  subtle  than  that.  We  might  be  willing  to  bestow 
every  material  benefit  on  some  heathen  whom  we  had 
never  seen,  but  could  we,  at  the  same  time,  honestly 
say  that  we  felt  a  personal  love  for  him  ?  I  was  so 
young  when  I  married  you,  Godfrey.  My  ideals  of 
life  were  so  keen  and  fresh.  I  was  prepared  to  accept 
life  unquestioningly  as  you  interpreted  it  to  me.  And 
now — now,  after  eleven  years  of  marriage  to  you,  I 
feel  that  I  have  never  given  you  one  spontaneous  emo 
tion, — that  I  have  never  received  one  whole-hearted 
moment  of  affection  from  you.  In  the  '  Kreutzer 
Sonata' — yes,  I  have  read  it,  I  have  taken  that  step 
of  my  own  free  will — I  feel  that  I  am  a  free,  indi 
vidual  being.  I  alone  am  responsible  for  my  own  soul ; 
not  you  or  any  other  human  being.  I  say,  then,  that 
I  have  read  the  Kreutzer  Sonata,  and  that  I  am  think- 


154  BARBARA   DERING. 

ing  of  the  passage  where  Posdencheff  says  that  Charcot 
would  have  declared  his  wife  hysterical.  You  probably 
think  that  I  am  hysterical,  and  yet  in  Tolstoi's  book 
the  man  says  that  they  were  living  immorally.  Surely, 
there  is  no  such  cause  in  our  case !  You  are  the  cold 
est  of  husbands,  I  the  most  frigid  of  wives !  Tolstoi 
would  not  admit  that  I  might  be  suffering  from  starva 
tion  for  love, — would  he?  He  thinks  that  he  is  wiser 
than  nature, — more  far-seeing  than  God."  She  paused, 
a  sudden  crimson  staining  her  white  cheeks, — one  hand 
at  her  breast.  "Ah!"  she  cried,  "he  has  much  to 
answer  for,  that  Tolstoi  of  yours.  In  his  Kreutzer 
Sonata  he  has  given  married  people  a  hideous  weapon 
with  which  to  wound  each  other.  The  cold  woman 
can  always  cry  to  her  husband,  'You  are  a  sensual 
monster!  Eead  what  Tolstoi  says  about  you!'  The 
cold  husband  can  say  to  his  wife,  'Passion  is  a  deg 
radation.  I  will  give  you  the  Kreutzer  Sonata  and 
you  can  see  for  yourself.'  And  then,  after  trying  to 
turn  the  world  topsy-turvy  with  his  harsh,  impossible 
theories,  look  how  inconsistent  he  is.  Look  at  his  im 
mense  family! — his  wife  and  children  dragged,  willy- 
iiilly,  into  a  barren  poverty ! — his  last  contradiction  of 
his  own  teachings! — for  I  read  in  to-day's  paper  that  ho 
had  presented  a  manifesto  to  the  Russian  government 
declaring  that  unless  it  guaranteed  to  feed  the  people 
until  next  harvest,  and  faithfully  performed  the  pledge, 
there  would  be  a  revolution,  in  which  he  himself  would 
take  part.  And  this  from  the  man  who  teaches  that 
on  no  pretext  must  we  resist  evil !  But  it  is  on  a  par 
with  his  other  declarations.  Four  years  ago  Matthew 
Arnold  said,  in  an  article  in  the  c  Fortnightly,'  '  Count 
Leo  Tolstoi  is  about  sixty  years  old,  and  tells  us  that 
he  shall  write  novels  no  more!'  And  then  see!  He 


BARBARA   DERING.  155 

gives  to  the  world  his  Kreutzer  Sonata.  He  desires 
that  men  should  abstain  from  all  alcoholic  drinks,  and 
yet  the  Christ  that  he  worships  made  wine  for  the 
marriage  guests  after  they  were  well  drunken  !  He 
declares  that  marriage  is  a  deviation  from  the  doctrine 
of  Christ, — a  sin !  And  yet  it  was  at  a  marriage  that 
Christ  performed  this  miracle  of  making  the  new 
wine!  He  condoned  by  His  presence  a  fact  which, 
according  to  Tolstoi,  he  regarded  as  a  crime !  It  is 
monstrous!  It  is  hideous!  It  is  abominable !"  Bransby 
was  staring  at  her,  his  eyes  fixed,  his  face  contorted. 
He  even  trembled  slightly. 

"Is  this  all?  Have  you  said  what  you  meant  to 
say  ?"  he  stammered,  finally. 

But  Eunice  had  begun  to  walk  about  the  room,  eagerly, 
restlessly,  like  some  graceful,  prairie-creature  that  has 
been  caught  and  caged, — her  long  gown  making  a  mys 
terious  sound  over  the  rich  carpet. 

"  Ah,  no  !  All  ?  It  is  not  half!  Do  you  think  that 
I  can  utter  in  twenty  minutes  the  unspoken  thoughts 
of  eleven  years  ?  I  do  not  mean  to  reproach  you. 
God  forbid !  You  are  very  kind  to  me.  You  give  me 
every  luxury.  It  is  not  your  fault  that  I  have  failed 
to  rouse  any  response  in  you, — that  your  nature  is  a 
cold  one.  What  I  wish  is  a  certain  liberty.  I  must 
think  and  read  and  feel  for  myself.  I  must  select  my 
own  friends.  I  can  understand  perfectly  that  Barbara 
Dering  should  be  uncongenial  to  you.  She  is  the  refu 
tation  of  every  belief  that  you  cherish.  She  is  like  a 
splendid  living  passion-flower,  and  you  wish  only  lilies 
sculptured  in  marble.  She  dares  to  feel,  and  to  declare 
feeling  a  noble  thing.  Her  husband  adores  her,  honors 
her,  comprehends  her.  She  is  more  sacred  to  him 
because  of  her  wifehood  than  she  could  ever  have  been 


156  BARBARA  DERING. 

as  a  girl.  That  she  has  grave  faults  you  would  find 
her  the  first  to  acknowledge ;  but  she  is  trying,  day  by 
day,  to  conquer  them.  We  strengthen  each  other.  I 
have  helped  her  through  terrible  hours.  She  has  been 
my  good  angel  in  many  a  dark  moment.  But  she 
worships  nature  and  man  as  God  has  made  them,  not 
as  Tolstoi  would  have  them ;  and,  unlike  me,  she  has 
had  full,  wholesome,  comprehending  love  I" 

"Yes,"  cried  Bransby,  viciously,  "from  two  hus 
bands  1" 

Eunice's  face,  which  had  been  of  a  tender,  glowing 
rose-color,  grew  suddenly  as  hard  and  chill  as  porcelain. 

"  Certainly,"  she  said,  quietly.  "  If  you  choose  to 
look  at  it  in  that  way.  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  discuss 
her  private  affairs.  Indeed,  I  am  not  trying  to  defend 
her  or  her  ideas.  What  I  want  to  say  is  this :  a  crisis 
has  come  in  my  life.  I  have  begun,  as  I  said,  to  see 
and  feel  for  myself.  I  intend  to  educate  my  children 
according  to  my  own  views,  not  those  of  your  sister, 
and  I  want  to  ask  that  you  will  not  oppose  me.  I 
also  wish  to  be  quite  frank  and  honest  with  you,  and 
to  tell  you  that  I  cannot,  on  any  consideration,  give  up 
my  friendship  for  Barbara.  Of  course,  I  will  not  ask 
her  to  this  house  if  it  is  disagreeable  to  you,  but  I 
intend  to  write  to  her  and  to  receive  her  letters. 
Another  thing  is  this.  I  cannot  submit  to  your  sister's 
insolence.  You  must  speak  to  her,  or  I  will  take  the 
children  and  leave  for  some  watering-place.  I  might 
go  back  to  Florida.  Yes,  I  will  say  it.  I  wish  to  say 
everything  to-night,  to  have  done  with  it.  It  has  been 
hard  enough  to  me  to  speak  at  all ;  but  I  think  that 
your  sister  has  a  bad  heart,  Godfrey.  I  think  she  is  a 
hypocrite.  Thank  God,  you  have  never  been  that !" 

"  You  flatter  me,"  said  Bransby,  hoarsely.     He  had 


BARBARA  DERING.  157 

been  forced  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  such  unusual  sensa 
tions  during  the  last  half-hour  that  he  felt  mentally  as 
well  as  physically  breathless,  and  was  throbbing  with 
a  curious  kind  of  numb  resentment  which  he  scarcely 
realized  at  the  moment.  One  fact  of  which  he  was 
convinced  was  that  of  Eunice's  sudden  rebellion.  He 
was  as  startled  as  a  man  who,  pacing  the  deck  of  a 
well-ordered  ship  on  a  summer  night,  is  bewildered  by 
the  sudden  flare  of  vividly-colored  signals.  He  had 
come  to  read  his  wife  a  lecture  on  unconsidered  friend 
ship  for  eccentric  and  daring  characters,  and  she  had 
suddenly  broken  the  silence  of  eleven  years  by  a  flood 
of  vehemently  expressed,  original  opinions  opposed  in 
every  particular  to  his  own  austere  ethics. 

In  the  meantime  she  had  sunk  into  a  chair  near  the 
table  and  hidden  her  face  upon  her  folded  arms.  Her 
loosened  hair  made  a  soft  dusk  over  her  bent  shoulders. 
She  felt  that  she  had  spoken,  that  she  had  been  born 
again  as  it  were  of  water  and  of  the  spirit.  She 
would  go  to  sleep  a  different  Eunice  Bransby  from  the 
one  who  had  waked  in  the  carved  white  bed  only  that 
morning.  She  was  more  her  own,  less  her  husband's, 
than  she  had  ever  been.  Happiness  she  had  given 
up  trying  to  clutch,  as  a  child  releases  a  dead  winged 
thing  which  it  has  held  until  it  has  grown  cold.  But 
the  higher  visions  of  life  lay  beyond  her.  To  make 
herself  one  with  the  great  purposes  of  existence,  to 
become  a  cheerful  co-worker  with  nature,  to  accept 
mystery  as  a  tender  boon,  suffering  as  a  dear  friend, 
death  as  a  holy  interpreter,  to  turn  the  flames  of  her 
own  anguish  upon  the  darkness  of  others  and  show 
them  how  to  live  and  love  more  worthily  by  its  keen 
light, — that  was  left  to  her ;  that  joy  remained,  serene, 
inviolate,  untarnished. 

14 


158  BARBARA  DERING. 

Bransby,  watching  her,  thought  that  she  was  only 
exhausted  by  her  intense  outburst.  After  pondering 
for  some  moments,  he  said,  with  great  magnanimity, 
"  Well,  good-night,  my  dear.  You  are  overwrought  and 
tired  now.  After  a  quiet  night's  rest  we  can  discuss  all 
this  more  satisfactorily.  Do  not  annoy  yourself  when 
you  awake  to-morrow  in  a  calm  mood.  I  quite  under 
stand  that  you  have  been  in  a  superexcited  and  un 
natural  state  this  evening,  I  ought  not  to  have  come 
to  you  when  I  saw  that  you  were  not  feeling  well." 

"  Thank  you.  Good-night,"  said  Eunice,  mechanically, 
holding  up  her  pale  cheek  side  wise  to  receive  his  un- 
flexible  kiss.  When  he  had  gone  she  flung  herself 
down  on  her  knees,  and,  wringing  her  hands  together, 
moaned  out, — 

"Oh,  my  God!  Thou  who  art  Love,  Thou  who 
madest  men  and  women  and  decreed  marriage,  have 
mercy  on  me !  have  mercy  on  me !" 


XXII. 

BRANSBY  had  never  before  been  called  upon  to  face 
such  a  problem  as  that  which  now  presented  itself. 
After  a  night  and  day  spent  in  uncomfortable  con 
sideration  of  the  matter  from  every  aspect,  he  was 
forced  to  admit  that  the  time  had  come  when  his  wife 
could  no  longer  be  coerced  by  a  disapproving  word  or 
glance,  and  that  she  was  fully  determined  to  carry  out 
her  intention  of  thinking  and  acting  for  herself.  As 
for  Barbara,  her  influence  in  all  this  was  very  apparent. 
That  it  was  an  unconscious  influence  Bransby  did  not 
know,  and  certainly  could  not  have  been  expected  to 


BARBARA   BERING.  159 

imagine.  He  regarded  her  as  one  of  those  alluded 
to  by  St.  Paul,  "  who  creep  into  houses  and  lead  captive 
silly  women,"  and  his  feeling  of  animosity  to  her  was 
not  decreased  by  his  realization  of  the  justice  of  many 
of  his  wife's  personal  remarks.  Altogether,  Barbara 
stirred  in  him  sentiments  of  a  nature  akin  to  those 
which  the  heirs  of  a  blind  person  would  probably  feel 
towards  a  physician  who  had  restored  him  to  sight 
when  his  former  state  of  darkness  would  have  better 
suited  their  interests.  To  the  weak  no  sensation  is  so 
delightful  as  that  of  power,  whether  worthy  or  un 
worthy.  A  vague  suspicion  of  his  own  lack  in  certain 
virile  qualities  had  been  lulled,  for  Bransby,  through 
all  his  married  life,  by  the  unquestioning  sway  which 
Eunice  had  allowed  him  to  exercise  over  her.  It 
pleased  him  to  see  this  bright  young  creature  become 
staid,  meek,  reserved,  at  his  behest,  to  hide  the  beauty 
of  her  arms  and  throat  from  others  because  he  desired 
it,  to  lock  up  her  favorite  music  and  refrain  from 
singing  all  but  sacred  songs  because  he  found  this 
course  preferable.  He  had  restricted  her  reading,  dic 
tated  her  occupations,  overlooked  her  correspondence 
and  even  selected  her  hours  for  exercise.  He  had 
occasioned  her  much  suffering  during  the  illness  of 
her  children,  because,  as  a  devout  Tolstoian,  he  did  not 
believe  in  doctors,  and  would  never  send  for  one,  until 
the  last  moment.  In  all  this  petty  indulgence  of  an 
egoistic  authority  he  had  found  that  curious  delight 
which  some  children  find  in  pretending  that  their 
image  in  the  glass  is  a  real  person,  although  they  know 
perfectly  well  that  there  is  nothing  substantial  behind 
the  frame.  It  was  in  his  character  as  reflected  in 
Eunice's  submission  that  Bransby  found  compensation 
for  the  emptiness  which  existed  in  its  actual  counter- 


160  BARBARA   DERINQ. 

part.  There  was  a  tinge  of  the  bully  in  his  compo 
sition,  if  so  masculine  a  word  can  be  used  in  so  shadowy 
a  connection,  and  now  that  his  victim,  his  "  fag,"  as  * 
it  were,  had  turned  and  faced  him,  the  idea  of  at 
tempting  to  reconquer  his  old  position  never  occurred 
to  him.  His  chief  thought  was  how  to  acquiesce  with 
the  greatest  show  of  firmness  and  dignity,  how  to 
agree  to  his  wife's  requests,  without  seeming  to  have 
been  forced  into  an  agreement ;  in  a  word,  how  to 
assume  the  attitude  of  one  who  bestows  a  benefit, 
rather  than  of  one  who  accedes  to  a  demand.  Above 
all,  he  was  almost  feverishly  anxious  that  his  sister 
should  not  know  what  had  taken  place. 

To  Eunice,  however,  the  hours  of  waiting  were 
almost  intolerable.  She  knew  him  thoroughly  in  most 
respects,  but  this  situation  was  so  unlike  any  in  which 
they  had  ever  been  placed  before,  that  she  could  not 
depend  on  her  past  knowledge  of  his  character  to 
decide  upon  the  position  which  he  would  now  take. 
She  even  thought  that  he  might  make  a  desperate 
resistance  and  come  to  some  extreme  resolve,  such  as  a 
sudden  sale  of  The  Poplars,  for  instance,  or  a  threat 
to  intercept  Barbara's  letters.  Many  wild  conjectures 
passed  through  her  mind  during  the  night  and  day 
that  followed  his  visit  to  her  room.  She  was,  there 
fore,  entirely  unprepared  for  his  calm  and  amiabla 
manner  the  next  evening,  when,  following  her  into  the 
library  after  dinner,  he  placed  himself,  with  sedate 
deliberation,  between  the  arms  of  a  fragrant  leather 
chair.  He  looked  at  her,  smiled,  softly  tapped  his 
finger-tips  together. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  have  you  quite  recovered  from  your 
nervous  attack  of  last  night?"  he  asked,  suavely. 
"  You  still  look  pale,  I  am  sorry  to  see,  but  those  blue 


BARBARA  D BRING.  161 

shadows  under  your  eyes  have  gone.  It  is  not  so 
damp  to-day.  That  is  always  better  for  your  neu 
ralgia." 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  weather  is  much  softer.  The  roses 
have  opened  on  several  bushes  to-day.  This  knot  I 
have  on,  I  cut  it  near  the  door." 

"  Those  pale  flowers  always  suit  you  admirably," 
replied  Bransby.  "You  have  no  gown  I  like  better 
than  that  deep  green  velvet,  and  the  little  Venetian 
ruff  suits  the  contour  of  your  face." 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  pretty,  and  so  warm.  But  my 
velvet  is  getting  shabby,  I'm  afraid.  Do  you  want  me 
to  get  another  green  one,  or  would  you  rather  have 
a  different  color?" 

This  appeal  to  his  taste  and  authority  fell  soothingly 
upon  Bransby's  disturbed  self-confidence.  He  replied 
graciously  that  he  could  think  of  nothing  more  charm 
ing  than  an  exact  reproduction  of  her  present  costume, 
adding,  in  a  by-the-way  tone, — 

"Er— those  matters  we  were  speaking  of.  I  wish 
to  explain  to  you  that  you  have  indeed  mistaken  me, 
if  you  think  I  want  you  to  educate  our  daughters  ac 
cording  to  my  sister's  ideas.  That  I  consider  many  of 
her  ideas  excellent  I  must  admit,  but  I  also  think  that 
the  mother  is  the  only  proper  guide  for  her  children." 

"  I  am  very,  very  glad  that  you  agree  with  me," 
said  Eunice,  in  a  low  voice.  Her  heart  was  beating 
fast,  but  her  delicate  face  and  figure  wore  their  usual 
composure. 

"And — er — I  have  also  decided,  after  long  and 
serious  thought,  that  I  do  not  wish  to  interfere  with 
your  friendship  for  Mrs.  Bering,  that  is — er — in  reason. 
I  am  willing  to  admit  that  her  unfeminine  views  and 
decided  manner  of  expressing  herself  may  have  preju- 
l  14* 


162  BARBARA  DERI  NO. 

diced  me  against  her.  Indeed,  she  must  have  some 
good  qualities  to  have  won  your  affection,  my  dear." 
And  here  he  bent  upon  her  a  benign  smile.  Eunice  was 
too  amazed  at  the  completeness  and  ease  of  her  victory 
to  speak  for  some  moments,  not  allowing  for  this  par 
rot-like  quality  of  succumbing  at  once  to  firm  handling. 

"  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  admit  so  much,  Godfrey," 
she  said,  finally.  "  I  hope  that  you  will  know  Barbara 
for  yourself  some  day.  But,  until  then,  I  don't  want 
to  have  her  here  against  your  wishes.  Apart  from 
annoying  you,  it  would  be  very  unfair  to  her " 

"  Oh,  I  can  trust  to  you  to  keep  things  within  bounds," 
said-Bransby,  blandly.  "  Besides,  she  does  not  like  me 
any  better  than  I  like  her,  I  fancy.  She  generally 
goes  straight  to  your  room  when  she  comes.  There  is 
one  little  matter,  however,  in  which  I  hope  you  will 
oblige  me.  I  heard  Winifred  attempting  to  whistle  the 
other  day,  and  when  I  reproved  her  she  said,  '  Mrs. 
Dering  does  it.'  Now,  I  may  be  old-fashioned,  but  I 
do  most  earnestly  object  to  a  woman's  whistling.  I 
hope  you  will  make  Winifred  understand  this." 

"Yes, — yes,  indeed,  Godfrey!"  exclaimed  Eunice 
with  a  touch  of  eagerness.  She  held  out  her  pretty 
hand  crusted  with  darkly -glow  ing  jewels.  "  You  may 
depend  on  me  not  to  teach  them  anything  of  which 
you  actually  disapprove  ;  only  in  matters  of  a  more 
personal  nature  I  feel  that  I  alone  must  judge  for  them. 
There  are  some  things  that  a  father  can  never  under 
stand " 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly,"  assented  Bransby,  also 
with  an  approach  to  eagerness.  "  I  understand  that 
entirely." 

His  relief  at  having  accomplished  what  he  wished, 
and  actually  having  her  treat  him  as  though  he  had 


BARBARA  DERING.  163 

conferred  a  favor  upon  her,  so  pleased  him  that  he  not 
only  took  her  extended  hand  in  both  his  own,  but 
ended  by  placing  his  moustache  carefully  upon  its 
satiny  back  before  releasing  it. 

"As  to  some  of  the  other  things  to  which  you 
alluded,"  he  went  on,  in  the  same  easy  tone,  "I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  you  were  overstrained,  my  dear.  I 
know  how  delicate  your  nervous  system  is, — how  it  re 
sponds  to  the  slightest  friction, — and  I  can  also  under 
stand  how,  at  times,  Lydia  should  annoy  you,  although 
with  the  best  intentions,  for  I  do  not  think  her  in  the 
least  hypocritical.  But,  as  I  was  saying, — forgive  me, 
my  dear,  if  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not  think  you  are 
capable  of  judging, — I  have  always  guarded  you  as 
carefully  as  a  florist  some  rare  orchid.  You  do  not 
dream  of  the  brutish  natures  of  most  men.  My  ex 
treme  consideration  may  have  seemed  to  you  coldness, 
but  I  am  persuaded  that  had  you  been  married  to  an 
ordinary  man,  you  would  have  died  of  horror  within  a 
year.  These  matters,  however,  are  not  for  tenderly- 
cherished  women  like  yourself  to  discuss.  You  cannot, 
in  the  nature  of  events,  know  anything  about  them. 
Brutality,  sensuality, — what  are  they  but  names  to 
you  ?  Only  I  beg  that  before  you  condemn  me  as  cold 
and  unfeeling,  you  will  also  try  to  realize  that  self-con 
trol,  consideration,  restraint,  are  the  highest  proofs  of 
respectful  devotion  which  any  man  can  show  to  any 
woman." 

"  You  are  very  kind, — very,  very  kind  to  me,  God 
frey,"  said  Eunice,  with  that  increase  of  adjectives 
which  so  often  denotes  lack  of  spontaneousness. 
Bransby  was  deeply  content.  He  felt  that  his  chaste 
bit  of  oratory  had  accomplished  even  more  than  he 
had  hoped. 


164  BARBARA  DERING. 

In  this  second  interview  Eunice's  tact  had  served 
her  as  good  a  purpose  as  her  firmness  during  the  first, 
and  if  she  had  dragged  her  husband  protesting  from 
his  perch  of  self-esteem,  she  had  certainly  succeeded  in 
stroking  to  a  dandy-like  gloss  his  ruffled  plumage. 

Before  going  to  bed  Bransby  also  had  a  conversation 
with  Mrs.  Crosdill  regarding  her  general  attitude  to 
wards  Eunice  and  the  children. 

"  You  know,  my  dear  Lydia,  how  sympathetic  your 
views  are  to  me,  but  Eunice  is  a  very  high-strung 
woman.  We  must  make  allowances.  Allowance 
should  be  made  for  natures  not  naturally  religious  and 
well  balanced  like  our  own.  You  remember  what  the 
apostle  says,  '  To  the  weak  became  I  as  weak  that  I 
might  obtain  the  weak.'  " 

"  Yes;  but  he  never  said  that  to  the  blasphemous  he 
became  blasphemous,  or  to  the  headstrong  headstrong," 
retorts  his  sister,  sharply. 

"  He  said  that  he  became  all  things  to  all  men,"  ven 
tured  Bransby,  somewhat  timidly. 

Mrs.  Crosdill  frowned  over  the  elaborate  altar-cloth 
which  she  was  embroidering  in  gold  bullion,  on  a  crim 
son-velvet  ground.  Her  next  sentences  were  punctu 
ated  by  sharp  jerks  at  the  needle,  which  seemed  to 
relieve  her  feelings  in  somewhat  the  same  manner  that 
a  series  of  silent  oaths  might  have  done. 

"  My  dear  Godfrey,  I  have  always  been  convinced 
that  the  verse  which  you  quote  was  improperly  trans 
lated  in  the  first  instance,  or  more  likely  taken  down 
incorrectly  by  St.  Paul's  amanuensis.  You  will  re 
member  that  he  often  dictated  his  epistles.  Bishop 
Cammersell  told  me  only  last  month  that  such  mis 
takes  must  frequently  have  occurred." 

w  Of  course.     I  am  sure  of  it,"  Bransby  hastened  to 


BARBARA   DERINQ.  165 

admit.  "  But,  at  least,  we  know  some  things  which 
are  beyond  dispute.  *  And  if  meat  cause  my  brother 
to  offend.'  There  can  be  no  discussion  about  that,  I 
suppose.  That  is  what  I  wish  to  call  your  attention 
to,  in  regard  to  Eunice.  She  is  a  devoted  mother." 

"  Say  rather  a  foolishly  indulgent  one,  my  dear  God 
frey.  I  have  never  known  a  child  who  gave  way  to 
such  paroxysms  of  rage  and  insolence  as  Winifred." 

Bransby  drew  the  corners  of  his  mouth  together 
with  a  reflective  thumb  and  forefinger,  shaking  his 
head  slightly. 

"  I  am  much  distressed  by  Winifred's  treatment  of 
you,  Lydia ;  but,  indeed,  my  dear,  I  think  you  will  only 
make  it  worse  by  interfering." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  consider  my  sisterly  interest 
interference,  Godfrey,"  replied  Mrs.  Crosdill,  turning 
inward  her  thin  lips  and  puncturing  the  heavy  velvet 
with  a  force  which  had  in  it  a  hint  of  viciousness. 

Poor  Bransby  was  beginning  to  feel  helpless.  He 
now  said,  almost  pleadingly, — 

"  Don't  say  that,  Lydia ;  you  hurt  me  very  much." 

"  My  dear  Godfrey,"  returned  his  sister,  rising  and 
beginning  to  sort  and  put  away  her  silks  and  bul 
lion,  "the  wholesome  truth  frequently  hurts,  in  fact, 
nearly  always,  but  I  shall  certainly  try  to  meet  your 
wishes  in  this  respect,  as  in  every  other.  However,  I 
can  think  of  nothing  that  would  please  me  so  much  as 
for  you  to  have  a  long,  quiet  talk  with  Bishop  Cam- 
mersell  about  the  position  of  a  man  in  his  household, 
and  the  education  of  children.  You  would  find  him 
delightful,  so  learned  and  cultivated,  a  prominent  re 
ligious  author,  and  a  man  of  wide  experience.  He  is 
not  dictatorial.  I  cannot  imagine  a  more  gentle,  win 
ning,  Christ-like  person  ah' ty.  He  has  nine  daughters 


166  BARBARA  DERING. 

of  his  own,  and  has  passed  through  burning  ordeals. 
The  death  of  his  devoted  wife  was  a  blow  which  I  fear 
has  shattered  his  constitution.  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
he  was  to  me  when  Dabney  died.  Such  patience! 
Such  wonderful  power  of  uplifting  consolation !  And 
then  so  practical  in  his  advice, — so  wise  in  his  views 
of  life  and  resignation !  I  feel  that  it  would  be  difficult 
for  one  who  lived  daily  in  his  atmosphere  of  calm 
holiness  to  refrain  from  idolizing  such  a  character.  I 
received  a  letter  from  him  which  was  forwarded  from 
Florida  only  to-day,  and  which  is  full  of  that  godly 
spirit  pervading  his  whole  life.  If  you  would  care  to 
read  it "  She  paused,  and  took  up  a  little  morocco- 
box  which  always  sat  beside  her  near  her  work-basket. 
It  contained  her  Bible,  prayer-books,  religious  poems 
culled  from  newspapers,  the  last  tracts,  and  to-day  the 
letter  of  Bishop  Cammersell,  who  was  bishop  of  a  dis 
tant  State  in  which  Mrs.  Crosdill  had  lived  during  the 
years  of  her  marriage. 

"  I  should  be  delighted,"  Bransby  assured  her,  stretch 
ing  out  his  hand  for  the  letter,  which  was  written  on 
large  sheets  of  ruled  paper.  The  handwriting  was 
squarely  round,  and  here  and  there  tremulous. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  AND  SISTER,"  so  ran  the  bishop's 
epistle, — "  I  have  long  been  meaning  to  write  and  tell 
you  of  my  earnest  approval  of  your  noble  and  unselfish 
work  among  the  unenlightened  children  of  Florida. 
Surely  this  cup  of  cold  water  will  bring  you  ample 
reward,  both  in  the  future  life  and  now  also,  in  the 
gratitude  and  love  of  these  little  ones  who  must  have 
already  learned  to  look  up  to  you  with  loving  gratitude. 
Ah,  how  the  heart  aches  when  we  are  forced  to  ponder 
upon  the  souls  of  thousands  of  children,  as  willing  and 


BARBARA  DERINO.  167 

ready  to  drink  in  salvation  as  these  which  you  are 
leading  to  our  blessed  Master,  and  which  are  yearly 
claimed  by  darkness, — yes,  lost  forever  because  we  do 
not  lay  enough  stress  upon  that  solemn  command  to 
preach  the  Gospel  to  every  creature !  I  cannot  tell 
you,  my  dear  friend  and  fellow-worker  in  the  great 
vineyard,  how  gratified  and  encouraged  I  am  by  the 
success  of  your  brave  mission  among  these  poor  in 
fants,  nor  how  earnestly  I  pray,  night  and  morning, 
that  God  may  bless  and  prosper  your  efforts.  That 
you  may  see  how  sadly  even  our  most  civilized  towns 
are  in  need  of  like  missions,  however,  I  will  relate  to 
you  a  most  sorrowful  case  which  took  place  under  my 
own  eyes.  It  was  that  of  a  young  girl,  a  sempstress, 
who  had  long  worked  for  my  family,  who  had  indeed 
just  finished  the  mourning  of  my  poor  children  for 
their  sainted,  beloved  mother.  Forgive  this  uncertain 
chirography.  I  cannot  yet  allude  to  my  dear,  dead 
saint  without  terrible  agitation.  However,  to  return 
to  the  story  of  poor  Lucy  Andrews.  She  had  been 
coughing  all  winter  (indeed,  I  had  often  remarked  how 
ill  she  looked  to  Nelly,  who  used  to  make  her  beef-tea 
with  her  own  hands  during  her  last  illness),  so  that  it 
was  scarcely  a  surprise  to  me  when  I  finally  heard 
that  she  was  dying.  Well,  I  went  to  see  the  poor  girl. 
She  had  been  a  faithful,  hard-working  creature,  had 
sent  her  two  brothers  to  school  with  her  earnings,  and 
had  housed  an  unfortunate  but  repentant  Magdalen  for 
over  a  year,  and  reclaimed  her,  by  loving  persistency, 
from  the  ways  of  sin.  She  also  gave  in  many  small 
ways,  of  which  others  had  told  me,  for  she  was  very 
shy  and  retiring  and  would  never  have  spoken  to  me 
of  such  matters  on  her  own  account.  When  I  began 
to  question  her  about  her  religious  beliefs,  however,  I 


168  BARBARA  DERINO. 

found,  to  my  consternation  and  grief,  that  this  poor 
creature  had  never  been  able  to  believe  in  the  divinity 
of  Christ,  except,  as  she  said  to  me,  that  He  was  nearer 
God  than  any  one  who  had  ever  lived.  All  night 
I  remained  with  her  in  prayer,  but,  struggle  as  she 
might,  she  could  not  seem  to  accept  this  vital  fact. 
Oh,  my  friend!  God  grant  that  you  may  never  be 
called  upon  to  witness  such  a  scene!  She  would  cling 
to  my  hand  and  sob  piteously  and  moan  aloud,  '  Oh, 
bishop !  bishop !  make  me  believe  it !  I  cannot !  I  can 
not!  I  love  Him!  I  have  always  tried  to  do  as  He 
said,  but  I  cannot  believe  that  He  was  God,  in  the 
way  you  tell  me  I  must  believe.  Oh,  bishop  !  do  you 
think  that  my  soul  will  be  lost  if  I  can't  believe  it? 
Do  you  think  I  will  never  see  mother  and  my  dear 
Jack  again  ?'  (The  poor  girl  was  here  alluding  to  her 
betrothed,  a  young  fellow  named  John  Newin.)  My 
friend,  what  could  I  say?  I  knew  that  except 
through  Christ  there  was  no  salvation.  The  words, 
1  Believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  and  thou  shalt  be 
saved,'  kept  rising  before  me.  I  repeated  them  to  her 
again  and  again.  It  was  useless.  She  expired  with 
wild  cries,  shrieking  that  she  loved  Him,  but  could  not 
believe  in  Him. 

"  Think,  then,  my  sister,  of  what  you  may  be  doing 
for  the  young  souls  who  gather  about  you  every  Sab 
bath  ;  you  might  even  read  them  this  account  of  poor 
Lucy,  if  you  think  it  would  serve  to  impress  upon 
them  the  lesson  of  Christian  faith.  My  daughters  and 
myself  join  in  sincere  thanks  for  the  delicious  bananas 
which  came  exquisitely  packed  in  the  gray  Southern 
moss.  How  beautiful  is  its  Indian  name,  'the  cur 
tains  of  death !'  and  how  sombre  are  those  actual  cur 
tains  when  through  them  we  do  not  see  the  light  of 


BARBARA  DERING.  169 

Christ  shining  gloriously,  as  it  must  always  shine  for 
true  believers ! 

"  Your  faithful  friend  and  brother, 

"LIONEL  CAMMERSELL." 

"  A  very  striking,  noble  letter,"  said  Bransby,  folding 
it  and  returning  it  reverently  to  its  long  envelope. 
"  That  last  figure  about  the  '  curtains  of  death'  was 
most  powerful.  He  seems  to  be  a  man  of  imagination 
as  well  as  of  deep  religious  quality,  and  his  praise 
must  be  very  gratifying  to  you,  Lydia.  It  is  indeed  a 
good  work  that  you  have  been  doing." 

"I  try  to  give  my  widow's  mite,"  Mrs.  Crosdill  said, 
deprecatingly.  "  It  is  all  I  have.  Ah,  Godfrey,  how 
I  should  like  to  do  for  Winifred  what  I  have  been 
doing  for  those  little  strangers !  I  have  not  yet  ques 
tioned  her  on  her  religious  belief,  but  from  her  way  of 
speaking  I  fear  she  is  in  outer  darkness,  to  a  great  ex 
tent.  She  has  no  idea  of  reverence  whatever.  The 
other  day  I  found  her  teaching  her  pug-dog  how  to  sit 
up  on  a  volume  of  Taylor's  sermons.  But  about  the 
bishop,  if  you  cared  to  see  him !  He  passes  by  here 
soon,  on  his  way  to  Ashleigh,  where  you  know  he  has 
a  winter  home,  the  climate  of  his  own  State  being 
very  trying.  Suppose  you  were  to  ask  him  to  stop  for 
a  day  or  two  ?  I  think  that  you  would  find  his  effect 
upon  Eunice  truly  marvellous " 

"  Er — if  you  would  let  me  show  her  his  letter,"  said 
Bransby,  somewhat  hesitatingly,  "it  could  not  help 
striking  her " 

"  Oh,  his  command  of  English  is  conceded  to  be  won- 
derful,  by  every  one  who  hears  him  preach.  His  illus 
tration  and  simile  are  really  extraordinary.  He  might 
even  be  persuaded  to  give  us  a  sermon,  if  he  stayed 
H  15 


170  BARBARA  DERING. 

over  Sunday.  Of  course  I  shall  only  be  too  delighted 
for  you  to  show  his  letter  to  Eunice.  It  may  throw  a 
more  favorable  light  upon  my  own  character." 

Here  she  turned  her  lips  inward  again  and  stiffened 
the  muscles  of  her  throat  in  a  gesture  of  scornful  in 
difference. 

"  My  dear  Lydia,  I  am  sure  that  Eunice  has  a  very 
high  idea  of  your  admirable  qualities !"  exclaimed 
Bransby,  nervously.  "  But  of  course  such  a  letter 
could  but  increase  your  most  ardent  admirer's  good 
opinion  of  you.  I  will  take  it  to  her  now." 

"  Well,  I  pray  that  it  may  bring  forth  good  fruit, 
Godfrey,"  she  returned,  brushing  her  cold  cheek  along 
his  in  that  contact  which  to  them  represented  a  kiss. 
"  And  now  good-night,  as  I  shall  have  gone  when  you 
come  back.  Pray  slip  the  bishop's  letter  under  my 
door,  when  Eunice  has  read  it." 

"  Yes ;  good-night,"  said  Bransby.  "  I  hope  very 
much  that  he  can  come.  His  letter  is  certainly  most 
powerful  and  attractive.  I  will  let  you  know  at  break 
fast  to-morrow  about  inviting  him.  It  depends  only 
upon  Eunice's  health,  I  assure  you." 

"  Good-night,"  repeated  Mrs.  Crosdill  briefly,  taking 
no  notice  of  his  last  remark,  except  by  a  slight  move 
ment  of  one  corner  of  her  mouth. 


XXIII. 

EUNICE  was  very  amiable  about  the  bishop's  letter, 
commended  his  sympathy  with  Mrs.  Crosdill,  said  how 
sad  was  the  fate  of  Lucy  Andrews,  and  admitted  that 
the  figure  about  the  Indian  moss  was  calculated  to  im- 


BARBARA  DERING.  171 

press  a  congregation  very  deeply.  She  agreed  at  once 
to  send  the  desired  invitation,  and  in  response  to  it 
Bishop  Cammersell  appeared  promptly  at  The  Poplars. 
When  he  entered  the  house  his  fair  skin  was  faintly 
rosed,  by  his  drive  in  an  open  trap,  through  the  sting 
ing  air,  and  his  large,  violet,  benign  eyes  looked  out 
from  eyelashes  frosted  with  cold  moisture.  He  was 
very  tall  and  of  a  fragile  build,  and  had  white,  curling 
hair,  which  grew  rather  long  and  fell  about  his  face  in 
gently  ecclesiastical  ringlets.  His  large,  rather  bone- 
lessly-modelled  nose  overdrooped  a  full  mouth  with 
deeply-pointed  upper  lip,  the  other  melting  into  the 
curve  of  a  slightly  retreating  chin.  He  had  those 
long,  white,  easily-moving  hands  which  the  world 
somehow  associates  with  distinguished  bishops,  and 
his  finely-modulated  voice  had  a  way  of  falling  softly 
at  the  end  of  his  sentences.  Mrs.  Crosdill  had  asked 
to  go  to  the  station  to  meet  him,  and  was  now  assist 
ing  him  to  remove  his  heavy  great-coat  and  to  shake 
the  snow  from  his  hat.  Winifred,  in  her  best  frock, 
with  a  sheer,  white  pinafore  over  it,  backed  slowly 
down  the  long  hall,  silently  comparing  the  real  bishop 
to  his  black-and-white  likeness. 

It  struck  Eunice  that  she  had  never  seen  her  sister- 
in-law  so  animated.  There  was  a  bright  purplish  spot 
of  color  under  her  prominent  eyes,  and  her  gestures 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  more  natural  and 
vivacious. 

Lois,  a  pretty,  olive-eyed  dumpling,  sat  solemnly  in 
a  carved  chair  by  the  chimney-corner,  with  her  plump 
legs  straight  in  front  of  her,  and  a  Maltese  kitten 
grasped  firmly  by  the  throat. 

"  How  charming  this  great,  round  hall  is,  with  its 
big  fireplace  and  tapestry  curtains  !"  said  the  bishop, 


172  BARBARA  DERINO. 

genially.  "  How  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  me  here, 
Mrs.  Bransby!  Our  greatest  pleasures  always  come 
unexpectedly.  Don't  you  find  it  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes, — yes,  indeed  !  How  wonderfully  true  I" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Crosdill. 

Eunice  found  the  bishop's  talk  much  more  natural 
and  attractive  than  his  letter-writing.  Watching  his 
face  when  Mrs.  Crosdill  addressed  him,  she  decided 
that  her  sister-in-law  sometimes  bored  him  with  her 
enthusiastic  acquiescence  in  his  least  remark. 

The  bishop,  in  the  mean  while,  was  charmed  with 
Eunice's  frail  loveliness  and  the  blossom-like  beauty  of 
her  two  children.  Bransby  also  seemed  to  him  very 
agreeable.  Altogether  it  was  one  of  those  sudden  and 
congenial  intervals  in  a  petted  prelate's  existence. 

"  Well,  my  child,"  he  said,  addressing  Winifred  as 
she  ventured  to  approach,  clasping  a  small,  tulle- 
arrayed  doll  in  one  brown  little  hand,  "  is  that  your 
favorite  daughter,  and  are  you  bringing  her  up  in  the 
way  in  which  she  should  go  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Winifred.  "  She's  very  ill, — 
she's  broke  her  leg."  And  she  turned  her  child's  volu 
minous  skirts  over  her  head,  displaying  a  pink  calico 
nudity  and  two  china  legs  in  painted  black  boots,  one 
of  which  had  been  broken  at  the  stout  ankle.  Mrs. 
Crosdill  suppressed  a  cry  of  shocked  modesty. 

"Winifred!  Winifred!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  harsh 
whisper.  But  the  bishop  taking  the  doll  into  his  own 
hands,  composed  her  ruffled  skirts,  and  said  that  the 
best  thing  in  the  world  for  a  broken  leg  was  to  have 
the  severed  foot  restored  to  it  by  a  strong  glue. 

"Yes;  but  you  see  it's  lost,"  replied  Winifred, 
gloomily. 

"  Then  make  one  of  sealing-wax,"  said  the  bishop, 


BARBARA  DERING.  173 

cheerily.  "I've  often  done  that  for  my  little  girls. 
Bring  me  a  bit  of  black  sealing-wax  and  I  will  heal 
your  daughter  at  once." 

"  Oh,  dear  bishop !  How  charming  of  you !"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Crosdill.  "  Winifred,  my  dear,  if  you 
will  run  up  to  my  room,  you  will  find  a  stick  of  black 
sealing-wax  on  my  writing-table." 

Winifred  scampered  up  the  shallow,  oak  stair-way, 
which  opened  inviting  arms  just  opposite  the  hall  fire 
place,  and  soon  returned  with  the  sealing-wax.  Then 
the  others  gathered  around  while  the  bishop  carefully 
modelled  an  impossible  foot  and  adjusted  it  to  the 
broken  ankle.  Only  Eunice  remained  quietly  in  her 
low  chair  near  the  fire,  her  eyes  upon  its  mellow  core, 
her  hands  twisting  a  little  glass  screen  framed  in  silver. 
She  felt  wearily  apart  from  all  this  orthodox  gayety. 
Bishop  Cammersell  had  ordained  the  clergyman  who 
had  united  her  to  Bransby.  She  was  thinking  with 
great  bitterness  of  her  married  life.  It  seemed  more 
a  farce  than  usual  to  her  just  then.  She  felt  herself 
smiling. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Bransby,''  said  the  bishop,  rising  and 
coming  over  beside  her,  "  '  a  penny  for  your  thoughts,' 
as  my  daughters  say  to  me.  You  were  evidently  re 
calling  some  agreeable  reminiscence." 

Eunice  decided  in  a  flash  that  the  bishop  was  un 
comprehending,  but  answered  simply, — 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  you  could  come,  bishop,  but 
perhaps  the  drive  in  an  open  carriage  was  too  cold  for 
you?" 

"  Oh,  no.  I  like  plenty  of  fresh  air ;  and  Mrs.  Cros 
dill  almost  smothered  me  in  fur  robes.  How  very 
lovely  this  country  is  I  What  an  ideal  home  you  have 
here!" 

15* 


174  BARBARA  DERING. 

"  We  are  very  fond  of  it,"  said  Eunice.  "  My  hus 
band  bought  it  from  the  Nelsons  and  remodelled  it  in 
the  colonial  style.  The  staircase  is  taken  bodily  from 
an  old  English  house  of  the  time  of  Charles  II." 

"  And  beautiful  it  is,  too !"  exclaimed  the  bishop, 
putting  on  his  glasses  to  observe  the  carving  more 
minutely.  Then  he  started  up  with  an  exclamation. 
"But  whose  photograph  is  that?  Surely — but  no — 
and  yet  what  a  likeness !  I  used  to  know  a  young  girl 
so  like  that, — Barbara  Cabell, — but " 

Eunice's  face  grew  vivid  in  a  heart-beat. 

"  It  is  Barbara  Cabell !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Only  she 
is  married.  Her  name  is  Bering  now, — Barbara  Bering. 
Bid  you  really  know  her  as  a  young  girl,  bishop  ? — and 
did  you  think  her  as  lovely  then  as  she  is  now  ?" 

"  She  was  thinner,"  said  the  bishop,  reflectively, 
"  and  she  wore  her  hair  brushed  straight  back  from 
her  forehead.  She  is  more  beautiful  in  this  picture 
than  I  remember  her." 

Eunice  could  not  help  flashing  a  glance  at  Mrs. 
Crosdill,  whose  face  wore  a  look  of  sudden  disapproba 
tion. 

"You  have  not  mentioned  that  this  is  her  second 
marriage,"  she  observed,  tartly. 

The  bishop  started  visibly. 

"  You  see  the  bishop  and  I  agree  on  the  subject  of 
second  marriages,  Eunice.  There  is  something  savage 
and  unchristian  in  them,  at  least  to  our  thinking." 

"  I  cannot  realize  that  Barbara  Cabell  has  been  twice 
married,"  said  the  bishop,  slowly.  "  What  a  brilliant 
creature  she  was,  to  be  sure !  As  vivid  and  untamed  as 
a  hawk,  but  wonderfully  intelligent !  I  liked  the  child. 
Others  found  much  fault  with  her  I  know,  but  some 
how  my  heart  always  yearned  over  her." 


BARBARA   DERING.  175 

Eunice  was  absorbing  these  remarks  with  a  full  and 
quiet  sense  of  the  sting  which  they  must  hold  for  her 
husband  and  sister-in-law. 

"I  think  you  would  like  Barbara  far  better  than 
ever,  bishop,"  she  said,  naturally.  "She  has  grown 
spiritually  and  mentally  almost  beyond  my  power  to 
describe." 

"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  the  bishop,  with  an  air  of  un 
feigned  delight. 

"  I  might  as  well  tell  you,  dear  bishop,"  here  put  in 
Mrs.  Crosdill,  feverishly,  "that  my  brother  and  I  do 
not  agree  with  my  sister-in-law  in  this  opinion.  I,  for 
example,  find  that  Mrs.  Bering  is  very  unfeminine  in 
many  ways,  and  more  like  a  hawk  than  ever." 

"  I  will  ask  Barbara  to  dinner,  and  the  bishop  shall 
judge  for  himself,"  said  Eunice,  whereupon  Mrs.  Cros 
dill  flushed  darkly,  but  made  no  further  remarks. 


XXIY. 

BARBARA  and  Bering  (the  latter  had  just  returned 
from  New  York)  accepted  the  invitation  to  dinner,  and 
Barbara  had  a  lustrous,  gem-like  beauty  in  her  straight 
gown  of  white  with  its  bands  of  darkest  sable. 

Bering  paid  her  so  many  compliments  on  the  way 
over,  that  when  they  arrived  the  usual  clear  pallor  of 
her  face  was  overlaid  with  a  warm  flush.  The  nape 
of  her  firm  throat  shone  whitely  under  little  tendrils 
of  dark-red  hair.  Other  tendrils  escaped  and  floated 
back  over  the  band  of  pearls,  which  lost  itself  under 
her  heavy  coils.  There  was  a  knot  of  Parma  violets 
at  her  breast. 


176  BARBARA  DERING. 

The  good  bishop,  who  was  as  capital  a  judge  of 
beauty  as  most  of  his  brothers,  was  enchanted. 

"  My  dear  child  !"  he  exclaimed,  enfolding  her  strong, 
rose-tipped  hand  in  both  his  own  pale  ones.  "  How 
glad  I  am  to  see  you  looking  so  well  and  happy! 
Your  charming  friend,  Mrs.  Bransby,  tells  me,  too, 
that  you  have  improved  as  much  in  soul  as  in  body 
during  all  these  years.  Ah,  how  well  I  remember 
your  dear  mother!  You  have  her  eyes, — the  same 
clear,  honest,  beautiful  eyes.  I  am,  indeed,  overjoyed 
to  see  you  again,  my  child,  and  under  such  happy  cir 
cumstances  !" 

"  Dear  bishop,"  returned  Barbara,  in  her  rich,  cordial 
voice,  "  it  is  very  nice  of  you  to  take  such  an  interest 
in  me !" 

She  pressed  his  hand  gratefully,  and  felt  herself 
more  drawn  to  this  simple,  kindly,  blue-eyed  priest 
than  to  most  others  of  his  cloth.  Bering,  from  a  dis 
tant  corner,  eyed  him  critically. 

"Oh,  Lord!  it's  another  of  those  spoilt  bishops!" 
he  had  exclaimed,  crossly,  when  Barbara  showed  him 
Eunice's  invitation.  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  Bab  darling, 
say  you've  got  a  finger-ache  or  something !  Let's  stay 
at  home.  By  Jove !  there's  no  bigger  bore  than  this 
thing  of  bishopolatry." 

But  she  had  persuaded  him  to  come,  drawing  in 
gloomiest  colors  a  picture  of  Mrs.  Crosdill,  and  appeal 
ing  to  his  Christian  charity  to  lighten  poor  Eunice's 
burden,  if  only  for  one  evening. 

She  and  Eunice  soon  fell  into  close  conversation, 
while  Mrs.  Crosdill,  a  little  apart,  worked  with  aggres 
sive  concentration  at  her  conspicuously  ecclesiastical 
embroidery,  and  the  men  grouped  themselves  before 
the  roaring  hickory  fire.  Dering,  with  his  legs  firmly 


BARBARA   DERINO.  177 

planted,  one  hand  pulling  at  his  short  moustache, 
the  other  thrust  deep  into  his  trousers-pocket,  the 
bishop  sunk  into  a  huge  leather  chair,  his  delicate 
hands  dangling  tassel-like  from  either  of  its  arms, 
Bransby  standing  in  an  attitude  of  hereditary  com 
posure,  with  one  hand  thrust  under  the  tails  of  his 
rigidly  smart  evening  coat. 

"Now  about  our  missions,  bishop,"  burst  forth 
Dering,  suddenly.  "  Bransby  tells  me  you  are  inter 
ested  in  missions.  I  was  talking  to  a  friend  the  other 
day, — a  friend  who's  in  the  Senate  and  up  in  such 
things, — and  he  tells  me  that  nearly  all  the  troubles  in 
China  and  the  Hawaiian  Islands  have  been  occasioned 
by  our  missionaries.  They  make  a  row  and  incite  the 
natives  to  rebel,  and  then  they  murder  some  authority 
or  other,  and  the  government  sends  down  a  gunboat 
and  bombards  the  island.  I  must  say  that  I  agree  with 
Lawrence  Oliphant  in  thinking  that  one  thing's  awfully 
needed  nowadays,  and  that's  a  '  missionary  to  the 
missionaries.' " 

The  bishop  hastened  to  answer. 

"  My  dear  sir !"  he  exclaimed,  "  if  the  world  had 
listened  to  such  tales  where  would  our  religion  be 
now  ?  The  government  always  exaggerates  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  Church.  But  then  I  am  an  enthusiast  on 
the  subject  of  missionary  work,  I  may  express  myself 
too  warmly." 

"I  can't  help  thinking  that  missions,  being  the 
truest  sort  of  charity,  should  begin  at  home,"  said 
Dering.  "  But  then,  of  course,  I  don't  know  anything 
really.  Only  I  can't  help  rather  sympathizing  with 
H.  H.  in  her  feeling  about  the  Indians.  It  seems  to 
me  that,  after  the  shabby  way  in  which  we  have 
treated  them,  we  owe  them  all  our  missionaries  at 
m 


178  BARBARA  DERING. 

least.  I  have  spent  some  time  in  the  West,  and  the 

way  in  which  those  poor  devils I  beg  your  pardon, 

sir ! — but  really  the  way  those  poor  chaps  were  cheated 
by  the  government  agents  was  infernal! — I  do  beg 
your  pardon !  It  always  makes  my  blood  boil  so  to 
think  of  it  that  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  choose  my 
words." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  most  excusable.  I  can  quite  com 
prehend  your  feelings,"  said  the  bishop,  pleasantly, 
"  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  your  generous  en 
thusiasm  is  somewhat  wasted  on  those  savage  out 
casts." 

"  In  my  opinion,"  said  Bransby,  slowly,  "  the  Indian 
is  a  low,  treacherous,  unredeemable  being,  who  should 
be  exterminated  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  Ah,  no,  my  friend,  I  cannot  say  that  I  endorse  that 
view  of  the  subject,"  objected  the  bishop.  "  They  are 
certainly  discouraging  subjects  for  regeneration,  but 
some  noble  work  is  being  done  among  them.  How 
ever,  I  understand  very  well  Mr.  Dering's  feeling 
about  the  need  of  missions  nearer  home.  You  will  re 
member,  my  dear  Mrs.  Crosdill,  that  letter  I  wrote  you 
about  poor  Lucy  Andrews.  Surely,  that  was  a  case 
for  earnest  missionary  work." 

"Ah,  yes,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crosdill.  "That 
was  terrible,  terrible!  I  woke  with  a  start  only  last 
night,  haunted  by  your  graphic  description  of  that 
poor  girl's  cries.  What  a  tragedy !  A  noble  soul  like 
that  lost  forever  from  the  mere  lack  of  proper  spiritual 
training !" 

"  What  was  this  sad  story,  bishop  ?"  asked  Barbara, 
coming  suddenly  forward,  her  lips  parted  in  that  eager 
forgetfulness  of  self  which  to  some  people  made  her 
face  so  irresistible.  At  her  request,  the  bishop  repeated 


BARBARA  DERING.  179 

the  sorrowful  end  of  Lucy  Andrews.  As  he  went  on 
a  look  of  suppressed  excitement  gathered  in  Barbara's 
wide  eyes,  and  when  he  had  finished  speaking  she  ex 
claimed, — 

"  But  surely,  bishop,  you  didn't  let  the  poor  girl  die 
in  the  belief  that  she  was  going  to  everlasting  torment  ?" 

The  bishop,  sharply  astonished,  paused  a  moment 
before  replying. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Dering,"  he  then  said,  "the  idea 
cannot  be  more  painful  to  you  than  it  was  to  me ;  but 
what  alternative  was  there?  Soothing  equivocations 
are  not  to  be  spoken  in  the  room  of  death." 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  Barbara,  a  sort  of  horror  well 
ing  into  her  face,  as  she  spoke, — "  is  it  possible  that 
you  really  believe  she  went  to  hell, — such  a  good, 
dear,  loving  soul  as  you  describe  her  to  have  been ! — 
just  because  something  in  her  mind  could  not  accept 
the  letter  of  the  law?" 

"  And  pray,  my  dear  Mrs.  Dering,  what  would  you 
have  done  in  my  place,  had  you  been  a  bishop?"  he 
demanded  loudly,  whereat  a  faint  titter  was  heard  to 
come  from  behind  Mrs.  Crosdill's  embroidery-frame, 
and  Bransby  shifted  his  position  a  little  uneasily. 

"I  should  have  told  her  that  God  is  love!"  cried 
Barbara,  her  face  glowing.  "  I  should  have  said  to 
her,  '  Poor  child,  whether  you  can  believe  these  details 
or  not,  do  you  think  that  God  will  be  less  merciful  to 
you  than  men  ?  It  is  with  the  heart  that  man  believeth 
unto  righteousness.  With  the  heart  that  we  love/ 
And  *  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law.'  If  she  loved  the 
Saviour,  she  believed  in  Him  in  the  deepest  sense  of 
the  word.  I  heard  a  sermon  once  by  a  Lutheran 
preacher,  and  he  said  such  a  good  thing  about  that. 
'  When  you  say  that  you  believe  in  a  man,'  he  said, 


180  BARBARA   DERINO. 

'in  Emerson,  for  instance,  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  believe  that  his  mother  was  a  Miss  So-and-so,  or 
his  father  a  lawyer  in  a  particular  town  at  the  time 
of  his  birth,  or  that  he  was  born  on  a  certain  day  of  a 
certain  year?  No!  You  mean  that  you  believe  in 
his  teachings,  his  philosophy,  his  theory  of  life, — in  a 
word,  you  believe  in  a  man,  not  in  the  details  of  his 
birth ;  and  if  you  believe  in  the  words  of  Christ  and 
try  to  do  His  will  and  love  His  beautiful  personality, 
you  believe  in  Him,  far  more  worthily  than  any  ortho 
dox  Christian  who  accepts  every  historical  detail  re 
lating  to  His  appearance  among  men  and  yet  hardens 
his  heart  to  his  fellows !'  " 

As  Barbara  spoke  her  face  got  paler  and  paler  until 
it  shone  with  a  sort  of  white  radiance  from  within. 
The  bishop,  who,  although  undeniably  rather  vain  and 
overpetted,  had  a  kind  heart  and  a  very  clear  sense  of 
justice,  had  come  to  the  conclusion,  during  Barbara's 
little  speech,  that  her  fervor  was  prompted  by  real 
enthusiasm,  not  by  a  perverse  desire  to  oppose  her  un 
conventional  ideas  to  his  orthodox  teachings.  He  said, 
with  gentleness,  after  a  slight  pause, — 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  must  remember  that  I  am  an 
Episcopal  bishop.  '  Believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
and  thou  shalt  be  saved,' — that  is  what  I  am  ordained 
to  preach  at  all  costs,  even  though  my  soul  is  torn  with 
pain  in  so  preaching." 

Barbara  came  nearer,  and  finally  seated  herself  on  a 
low  chair  near  the  bishop's,  so  that  her  attitude  had  in 
it  something  childlike  and  winning. 

"  But,  dear  bishop,"  she  said,  when  he  had  stopped 
speaking,  "  if  to  love  God  with  one's  whole  being  and 
one's  neighbor  as  one's  self  are  the  foundation-stones  on 
which  rest  all  the  law  and  the  prophets,  surely,  surely, 


BARBARA  DERING.  181 

this  poor  Lucy,  who  told  you  over  and  over  how  she 
loved  the  Saviour,  and  who  had  loved  a  poor  sinning 
outcast  as  herself, — surely,  because  she  could  not  be 
lieve  in  the  orthodox  sense  of  the  word,  you  do  not 
think  her  soul  lost  forever?" 

"  My  child,"  returned  the  bishop,  "  I  appreciate  the 
loving-kindness  of  your  own  heart  which  prompts 
you  to  plead  so  eloquently  for  this  poor  girl.  But 
God's  ways  are  past  finding  out.  She  died  in  unbelief. 
The  Church  has  but  one  opinion  for  those  who  die  in 
that  manner." 

"  God  is  love,"  said  Barbara ;  "  love  forgives,  forever 
and  ever." 

"  And  yet,  my  dear,  there  is  an  unpardonable  sin." 

"Ah,  yes!"  exclaimed  Barbara,  starting  to  her  feet. 
"  I  have  always  thought  that  the  unpardonable  sin 
was  the  belief  that  there  was  any  sin  which  God's  love 
would  not  pardon." 

"My  child!  my  child!"  said  the  bishop,  warningly, 
"take  care  that  your  mercy-loving  and  enthusiastic 
nature  does  not  carry  you  into  great  error.  Works 
without  faith  cannot  avail, — rather  they  have  the 
nature  of  sin,  as  it  is  said  in  the  thirteenth  article  of 
our  religion, — because  of  the  very  fact  that  they  are 
done  without  true  piety, — that  is,  without  belief  in  the 
divinity  of  our  Lord." 

"But  surely  right  is  right  and  wrong  is  wrong, 
bishop,  no  matter  who  does  either.  If  a  man  who  had 
been  a  thief  all  his  life  were  to  restore  a  jewel  that  he 
had  stolen,  that  one  act  would  remain  righteous,  even 
though  he  were  to  go  on  stealing  jewels  the  next  day. 
And  although  a  man  were  an  orthodox  believer  and 
the  most  rigid  of  Christians,  as  far  as  faith  went,  and 
yet  were  to  kill  his  brother,  the  crime  would  remain 

16 


182  BARBARA   DERING. 

a  crime.  Would  it  not?  There  are  so  many  things 
which  hurt  me  in  our  religion, — things  which  seem 
to  me  so  wrong,  which  I  cannot  admire  or  respect. 
Now,  for  instance,  in  our  little  church  here  in  this 
neighborhood  there  are  some  tables  on  which  the 
commandments  are  written,  and  every  child  or  poor, 
ignorant  person  can  spell  out  for  themselves  every 
Sunday  the  terrible  words,  '  for  I  the  Lord  Thy  God 
am  a  jealous  God,  and  visit  the  sins  of  the  fathers 
upon  the  children,  unto  the  third  and  fourth  genera 
tion.'  Yet  who  would  ever  think  of  setting  up  the 
tables  inscribed  with  God's  own  contradiction  of  those 
words  ? — that  eighteenth  chapter  of  Ezekiel  which  so 
few  seem  to  know.  I  would  give  such  a  set  of  tables, 
oh,  so  willingly !  and  yet  I  am  sure  that  I  should  not 
be  permitted  to  do  it.  Wait  till  I  get  Eunice's  Bible 
and  show  you  the  verses  which  I  would  select."  She 
brought  the  book  and  read  eagerly,  " '  Yet  say  ye,  Why  ? 
doth  not  the  son  bear  the  iniquity  of  the  father? 
When  the  son  hath  done  that  which  is  lawful  and 
right,  and  hath  kept  all  my  statutes,  and  hath  done 
them,  he  shall  surely  live.  The  soul  that  sinneth,  it 
shall  die.  The  son  shall  not  bear  the  iniquity  of  the 
father,  neither  shall  the  father  bear  the  iniquity  of  the 
son :  the  righteousness  of  the  righteous  shall  be  upon 
him,  and  the  wickedness  of  the  wicked  shall  be  upon 
him.  But  if  the  wicked  will  turn  from  all  his  sins 
that  he  hath  committed,  and  keep  all  my  statutes,  and 
do  that  which  is  lawful  and  right,  he  shall  surely  live, 
he  shall  not  die.  All  his  transgressions  that  he  hath 
committed,  they  shall  not  be  mentioned  unto  him :  in 
his  righteousness  that  he  hath  done  he  shall  live. 
Have  I  any  pleasure  at  all  that  the  wicked  should 
die?  saith  the  Lord  God:  and  not  that  he  should 


BARBARA  DERINO.  183 

return  from  his  ways,  and  live  ?'  Ah,  dear  bishop !"  she 
ended,  clasping  her  hands  over  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
and  turning  an  eager  face  up  to  his,  which  was  very 
puzzled  and  solemn,  "  do  let  me  give  a  set  of  tables 
with  those  words  on  it  to  some  church  in  your  diocese. 
I  have  so  longed  to  do  it.  Please,  please  say  yes !" 

The  bishop  looked  as  he  felt,  decidedly  upset  and  un 
comfortable. 

"  We  shall  see !  We  shall  see !"  he  murmured,  letting 
his  eyes  rove  about,  as  though  for  some  object  which 
would  suggest  a  simile  that  might  tide  him  over  this 
direct  and  embarrassing  appeal.  "  Such  a  question 
could  not  be  decided  at  once.  It's  a  very  serious 
matter, — more  so  than  you  think,  my  dear.  Such 
tables  would  offend  many  people,  and  be  sure  to  wound 
the  consciences  of  the  weak  brethren.  But  I  shall  re 
flect  upon  it,  my  dear.  I  shall  certainly  reflect  upon 
it." 

Here  Uncle  Amos,  appearing  between  the  heavy 
tapestry  portieres  which  filled  the  great  arch  between 
the  first  and  middle  halls,  said,  pompously, — 

"  Dinner's  purnounced,  Miss  Eunice." 


XXV. 

DURING  dinner,  Barbara,  having  seen  that  the  feathers 
of  the  worthy  bishop's  soul  were  somewhat  disturbed 
by  her  eagerness,  brought  all  her  tact  to  the  task  of 
soothing  them  again.  She  won  him  to  relate  his  most 
impressive  anecdotes,  appealed  to  him  on  literary  mat 
ters,  and  delighted  him  by  her  description  of  a  clever 
little  niece  of  Martha  Ellen's,  who  was  only  six  years 


184  BARBARA  DERINO. 

old,  and  who  could  repeat,  by  heart  and  with  fluency, 
the  second  chapter  of  St.  Matthew.  Eunice  could  not 
decide  whether  the  bishop  was  conscious  of  the  effect 
which  his  evident  pleasure  in  Barbara's  bright  talk 
was  producing  upon  Mrs.  Crosdill.  That  lady  bridled, 
smiled  now  and  then  to  herself  with  demure  bitter 
ness,  and  tapped  her  chest  with  a  show  of  absent-mind 
edness  which  clearly  denoted  her  inward  irritation. 

Bransby  and  Bering  were  discussing  the  race  ques 
tion,  so  Eunice  was  at  liberty  to  observe  quietly  all 
that  passed,  while  she  arranged  a  saucer  of  jelly  for 
Win,  who  had  been  allowed  to  come  down  to  dessert, 
and  who  was  delightfully  prim  and  self-important  in 
a  short-waisted  white  muslin  frock  tied  with  a  pink 
ribbon  and  wearing  a  little  mob-cap  on  her  dark  curls. 
Having  scraped  up  the  last  spoonful  of  the  wine-sauce, 
which  was  served  with  the  jelly,  she  said  to  her 
mother,  in  a  discreet  whisper, — 

"  Mother  dear,  I  feel  funny  in  my  knees,  but  it's 
very  cheerful." 

Eunice  smiled  and  nodded  over  the  orange  which 
she  was  peeling. 

Presently  Win  whispered  again, — 

"  I  think  Aunt  Lydia's  crosser'n  usually  'cause  the 
bishop's  preachin'  his  whole  sermon  to  Barbara." 

Eunice  could  not  help  smiling  again,  but  touched 
her  lips  to  her  finger  in  a  pantomime  of  the  worn  saw 
about  children's  being  seen  and  not  heard.  As  the 
conversation  grew  more  animated,  however,  Winifred 
urged,— 

"  I  just  must  tell  you  this,  mother :  I  do  think  the 
bishop's  a  little  unpolite  'bout  takin'  the  best  things. 
He  always  took  the  best  piece  of  celery,  and  now  he's 
tooken  the  biggest  banana.  Do  you  think  God  will 


BARBARA  DERING.  185 

punish  me  for  thinking  His  bishop  a  little  teeny  weeny- 
bit  greedy  ?" 

"  Hush,  Win,"  said  Eunice,  gravely,  though  she  had 
more  desire  than  ever  to  smile.  "  You  are  getting 
saucy.  You  must  try  to  get  over  that  way  you  have 
of  criticising  older  people.  It's  very  improper  in  a 
little  girl." 

"But,  mother  dear,  isn't  the  truth  as  truly  true 
when  a  little  girl  thinks  it  'bout  a  bishop  as  when  a 
bishop  thinks  it  'bout  a  little  girl  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  it  is  the  bishop's  duty  to  tell  little  girls 
their  faults,  while  it  would  only  be  disrespectful  if  little 
girls  told  bishops  what  they  thought  were  their  faults." 

"  Well,  is  it  disrespectful  if  I  can't  help  liking  Bar 
bara's  husban'  better,  and  he  ain't  a  bishop  ?" 

"  No ;  that's  no  harm.  But  hush,  dear,  you're  talk 
ing  too  much." 

Win  began  to  eat  her  orange  section  by  section, 
plunging  her  little  crimped  teeth  into  the  clear  yellow 
fibres,  and  curling  her  red  lips  away  from  contact  with 
the  stinging  juice.  As  she  ate  each  division  she  placed 
the  seed,  with  the  dainty  deliberation  peculiar  to  her, 
along  the  edge  of  her  plate.  The  bishop,  happening 
to  glance  up,  watched  this  operation  with  the  sympa 
thetic  smile  of  a  somewhat  sentimental  father. 

"  Was  it  not  a  sweet  thought  of  our  Heavenly 
Father  to  make  such  delicious  fruit  for  us  all  to  enjoy, 
my  child  ?"  he  asked,  at  last. 

Win  gazed  frankly  at  him  over  her  last  bit  of  orange. 

"  But  He  made  poison-berries  an'  things,  too,"  she  re 
plied,  abruptly.  "  Why  do  you  reckon  He  did,  sir?" 

"  They  are  not  poisonous  to  the  birds  of  the  air,  who 
live  upon  them,  my  dear." 

"  Well,  parsley  kills  parrots,"  said  Win.  "'Cause  we 
16* 


186  BARBARA  DERI  NO. 

had  a  parrot,  and  it  ate  it,  and  then  it  died  in  a  hurry. 
But  of  course  I  know  *  He  doeth  all  things  well,'  sir," 
she  hastened  to  add,  fearing  she  was  being  disrespect 
ful,  and  noting,  besides,  with  a  child's  quick  intuition, 
the  cloud  of  annoyance  that  was  gathering  on  the 
bishop's  brows  and  the  anger  brewing  in  the  eyes  of 
her  aunt. 

When  Barbara  and  Bering  were  once  more  in  their 
snug  brougham  on  the  way  home,  he  suddenly  caught 
her  to  him  and  laced  her  arms  close  about  his  throat. 

"  There !  For  Heaven's  sake  let  me  feel  the  contact 
of  something  warm,  reviving,  human !  I've  been  talk 
ing  abstractions  with  that  lump  of  frozen  dough, 
Bransby,  until  my  marrow  feels  about  to  congeal! 
Your  lips,  Barbara,  before  I  turn  into  marble,  like  the 
chap  in  the  *  Arabian  Nights.'  " 

Outside,  the  fields  were  smooth  with  snow  and  the 
sky  like  the  inside  of  an  onyx  globe,  set  with  sharp, 
many-colored  diamonds.  It  was  very  cold,  and  the 
window-panes  were  soon  frosted  with  their  breath. 

Dering  laughed,  and  wrote  Barbara's  name  with  his 
finger  upon  the  blurred  glass. 

"  There ! — that's  typical.  I  always  see  the  world 
through  that  medium!"  And  again  he  kissed  her. 

"  But  how  terrible  for  poor  Eunice  to  be  shut  up  in 
that  country  house  all  winter  with  Bransby  and  his 
sister !"  said  Barbara,  after  a  while.  "  She  is  a  goddess 
of  patience.  I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"  You !"  Dering  laughed  at  the  idea.  "  I  can  fancy 
you  giving  that  would-be  Mrs.  Bishop  a  piece  of  your 
mind.  What  a  terror  she  is !  Worse  than  the  man. 
But  I  like  Eunice  much  better  than  I  ever  did." 

Barbara  was  delighted,  and  put  her  left  hand  upon 
his,  in  which  her  right  was  already  clasped. 


BARBARA  DERING.  187 

"  How  glad  I  am !"  she  exclaimed.  "  She  is  a  wonder, 
but  so  quiet  that  most  people  don't  understand  her  and 
are  apt  to  think  her  weak.  She  has  always  liked 
you." 

Dering  could  not  help  grinning  a  little  as  he  an 
swered, — 

"  She  has  a  great  variety  of  tastes.  She  must  have 
a  genius  for  adapting  herself  to  different  characters,  if 
she  likes  me  and  Bransby  at  the  same  time." 

"  Oh,  Jock !  You  must  see,  you  must  feel "  began 

Barbara,  and  then  stopped,  afraid  of  being  disloyal  to 
her  friend.  "  Eunice  was  so  very,  very  young  when 
she  was  married,"  she  added,  hastily. 

"Poor  soul!"  exclaimed  Dering.  Then  taking  Bar 
bara's  face  between  his  hands,  he  rested  his  lips  upon 
hers  in  a  long,  complete  kiss  of  quiet  intensity. 
"There!"  he  said,  as  he  lifted  his  head.  "Just  to 
think  that  she  has  never  been  kissed  like  that  in  all 
her  eleven  years  of  marriage!  What  a  shame!  And 
such  an  adorable  mouth  as  she  has,  too !" 

Barbara  smiled  back  into  his  half-mischievous  eyes, 
then,  with  a  contented  sigh,  settled  herself  comfortably 
against  his  side  and  rested  her  head  upon  his  breast. 
He  had  never  seemed  to  her  so  charming,  so  much  a 
man,  as  thus  contrasted  with  the  pale  and  emotionless 
Bransby.  The  movement  of  the  firm  muscles  in  his 
arm,  as  he  searched  for  his  match-box  to  light  a  cigar 
ette,  pleased  her  woman's  pride  in  strength.  She  could 
not  understand  at  all  how  Eunice,  even  as  a  very  young 
girl,  could  have  fancied  Bransby,  with  his  dapper,  in 
capable  little  figure,  his  smooth  pale  hair,  his  neat 
beard,  cut  exactly  in  a  point,  his  great  light-brown  eyes, 
and  thin,  colorless  lips.  She  thought  of  his  tiny  hands 
and  feet  with  a  sensation  of  physical  revulsion.  Even 


188  BARBARA  DERINO. 

that  fierce  cruelty  which  is  so  often  an  excrescence  of 
strength  was  more  acceptable  to  her  than  the  frigid, 
sexless  calm  of  Bransby's  conjugal  manner.  She  re 
called  Mommsen's  saying,  that  "  there  is  no  genius 
without  passion,"  and  agreed  with  it  vehemently.  At 
least  Dering,  with  all  his  faults,  was  powerful,  respon 
sive,  full  of  varied  fire,  and  never  roused  in  her  that 
sense  of  mental  nausea  which  she  felt  convinced  must 
have  sometimes  overpowered  Eunice,  in  the  presence 
of  Bransby's  tepid  platitudes  about  heaven,  life,  and 
duty,  all  three  of  which  he  could  only  know  as  quota 
tions  from  highly  orthodox  and  conventional  volumes. 
He  himself  reminded  her  of  a  paragraph  from  a  re 
ligious  novel.  This  last  fancy  made  her  laugh  out  and 
press  her  head  with  a  childishly  affectionate  gesture 
against  Bering's  shoulder,  kissing  the  stuff  of  his  coat 
as  she  did  so. 

"Darling!"  he  said,  charmed.  "But  why  did  you 
laugh  ?  What  were  you  thinking  of?" 

She  told  him,  and  they  were  merry  at  Bransby's 
pious  expense  for  some  moments.  The  glare  from  the 
moonlit  snow  glimmering  in  at  the  carriage  windows 
lighted  up  their  faces  with  a  pale  glow,  and  they  could 
see  each  other's  white  teeth  flashing  gayly.  A  sense 
of  youth  and  vigor  stirred  them  both.  They  grasped 
each  other's  hands  so  eagerly  that  it  was  almost  pain 
ful,  and  gazed  at  the  windows,  from  which  they  brushed 
the  moisture  now  and  then,  with  that  excitement  in  de 
tail  which  possesses  two  children  who  are  traversing  a 
strange  country. 

"How  dim  and  blue  the  hills  are!  and  how  they 
melt  into  the  sky!"  said  Barbara.  "I  feel  so  strong 
and  gay— just  as  though  I  could  take  your  hand  and 
run  over  that  bright  snow  for  hours,  without  feeling 


BARBARA  DERING.  189 

tired.  Brr!  What  an  odious  dinner  it  was!  How 
dreadful  most  ecclesiastical  anecdotes  are ! — don't  you 
think  so  ?" 

"  Yes ;  the  bishop  was  much  better  than  his  stories," 
admitted  Dering,  slowly,  hindered  from  responding 
wholly  to  her  gayety  by  that  sudden  feeling  of  religious 
conventionality  which  sometimes  overwhelmed  him. 
He  allowed  himself  a  certain  license  now  and  then  in 
speaking  of  the  clergy,  but  resented  it  in  others,  even 
in  Barbara.  It  was  the  same  feeling  that  makes 
mothers  ready  to  punish  their  children  themselves, 
while  they  get  angry  with  any  one  else  who  attempts 
to  do  so. 

Barbara  was  too  happy  and  gay  to-night,  however, 
to  notice  the  negative  tone  in  his  voice,  and  went  on, 
eagerly,— 

"How  beautiful  it  is!  How  I  love  these  rolling 
fields  all  swathed  in  snow !  They  are  like  the  breasts 
of  Titanesses,  with  a  red  streak  here  and  there  that 
looks  like  blood." 

"  Oh  !  oh !"  cried  Dering,  in  a  shocked  tone.  "  What 
would  Bransby  say  if  he  could  hear  you  ?  What  an 
immodest  simile !  How  lacking  in  all  womanly  refine 
ment  !" 

And  again  they  laughed  gayly. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Dering,  after  a  moment  or 
two,  "Mrs.  Crosdill  is  setting  that  hideous  widow's 
cap  of  hers  for  the  blue-eyed  bishop.  She'll  marry 
him,  too  I" 

"  Oh,  Jock !  do  you  think  so  ?  I  fancy  she  bores 
him.  And  then  with  their  horror  of  second  mar 
riages " 

"  Horror  of  fiddlesticks !"  retorted  Dering.  "  They'll 
put  it  on  a  high  moral  and  religious  platform.  You 


190  BARBARA  DERING. 

see  if  they  don't !     She  will  marry  him  to  be  a  mother 
to  his — nine  daughters  did  he  say?" 

"  And  he  ?"  asked  Barbara.  "  What  will  he  marry 
her  for?" 

"Oh,  I  dare  say  he'll  suddenly  becomes  convinced 
of  the  positive  command  in  that  verse  '  a  bishop  must 
be  the  husband  of  one  wife.'  You  know  there  are 
people  who  take  it  that  way." 

"  How  glad  I  am  that  you  are  not  a  bishop !"  Barbara 
exclaimed,  frivolously.  "  I  couldn't  help  feeling  as  if  it 
were  a  sort  of  religious  ceremony  whenever  you  kissed 
me." 

Their  moods  were  mutually  sympathetic  to-night. 
To  Dering  she  seemed  perfection,  in  her  simple  white 
gown  with  the  little  furze  of  red-gold  strands  outlining 
her  fine  head.  The  violets  at  her  breast  gave  forth  a 
languid  perfume,  and  the  high  collar  of  fur  on  her 
cloak  accentuated  the  smooth  clearness  of  her  face. 
Her  voice,  rich  and  low,  thrilled  him  as  though  he 
had  heard  it  for  the  first  time.  He  was  more  thor 
oughly  in  love  with  her  than  he  had  ever  been  and 
ventured  to  kiss  her  throat  with  something  of  a  lover's 
timidity. 

She  felt  nearer  to  him  than  she  had  for  a  long  time. 
That  air  of  husbandly  assurance  which  she  resented 
had  entirely  disappeared.  They  went  to  the  music- 
room,  on  reaching  home,  and  Dering  lay  on  the  rug 
before  the  fire  and  smoked,  while  she  played  softly 
the  different  odds  and  ends  that  he  loved  best.  After 
a  while  she  stopped,  and  coming  over  beside  him, 
said, — 

"A  penny,  Jocko!    I  can  almost  hear  your  thoughts." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Dering,  slowly,  "  what  hard 

luck  it  is  that  every  one  isn't  as  happy  as  I  am.     And 


BARBARA  DERING.  191 

then  I  was  trying  to  realize  that  there  were  people  to 
night  who,  in  addition  to  mental  suffering,  were  cold 
and  hungry.  It  seems  hideous." 

"  It  is  hideous,"  said  Barbara.  "  Sometimes  I  wonder 
so  about  it  all.  I  would  be  so  willing  to  give  all  I  had 
to  the  poor,  if  I  really  thought  that  it  would  be  anything 
but  a  penny  dropped  in  mid-ocean.  How  I  should  love 
to  see  you  a  great  philanthropist,  darling !  I  have  so 
often  thought  that  a  great  work  lay  before  you  in  that 
line." 

"How  strange!"  exclaimed  Dering,  lifting  himself 
upon  his  elbow  and  looking  at  her  curiously.  "  Gad, 
you  are  a  witch — you  wonder !" 

"Is  that  what  you  have  been  thinking  of?"  asked 
Barbara,  tenderly.  Then  she  looked  at  him  with  her 
deep,  loving  eyes,  and,  resting  one  hand  on  his  thick 
hair,  said,  in  a  low  voice, — 

"  If  you  could  think  out  some  plans  for  lessening 
poverty  and  vice,  I  would  be  willing  to  give  up  every 
thing  and  help  you  in  your  work.  I  mean  even  if  you 
wished  to  live  with  the  working-classes  as  Felix  Holt 
did.  Only" — she  paused,  and  then  went  on  seriously — 
"  I  don't  believe  in  equality  any  more  than  I  would  love 
a  world  that  is  one  vast  level.  There  must  be  valleys 
and  mountains  in  human  nature,  as  well  as  in  land 
scapes.  People  are  happier  for  looking  up.  What  I 
long  for  is,  that  every  one  should  have  the  blessing  of 
happy  work  and  ample  earning.  But  that  idea  of 
living  in  droves  is  horrible  to  me.  It  would  make  of 
life  one  vast  American  hotel.  I  don't  think  any  one 
who  had  a  touch  of  the  artist  in  them  could  ever  have 
imagined  such  a  system.  The  very  monotony  of  it 
would  pall  on  one.  I  really  think  I'd  rather  be  a  jolly 
tramp,  with  a  certain  amount  of  exciting  doubt  as  to 


192  BARBARA  DERING. 

how  I  should  get  my  dinner  and  where  I  should  sleep 
that  night." 

Dering  smiled,  and,  taking  her  hand  from  his 
hair,  pressed  its  palm  against  his  lips  a  little  ab 
sently. 

"  '  The  destruction  of  the  poor  is  their  poverty,'  "  he 
said,  at  last.  "  Of  that  I  am  convinced.  But  how  to 
help  it, — how  to  help  it !"  He  was  silent  again  and  sat 
gazing  into  the  flameless  fire. 

"  Do  you  think  of  making  it  a  life-work,  dearest  ?" 
she  asked,  after  some  moments.  "  How  happy  that 
would  make  me !"  Her  face  lighted  up.  "  Oh,  Jock, 
how  bappy  we  should  be  if  you  thought  of  that !"  she 
cried  again.  "  I  would  be  with  you  in  everything, — 
even  in  the  most  quixotic  things  that  you  might  do. 
If  you  were  to  give  away  all  our  money,  you  would 
never  hear  me  murmur." 

Dering  looked  at  her  with  a  rare  moisture  in  his  eyes. 
"  Oh,  Barbara,"  he  said,  "  if  that  poor  devil  Lydgate  in 
'  Middlemarch'  had  had  a  wife  like  you !  It  seems  to 
me  that  you  are  the  only  entirely  comprehending 
woman  I  ever  knew.  I  am  sure  you  are  the  only 
woman  who  never  has  any  petty  jealousies." 

"  I  could  not  care  for  any  one  unless  I  had  absolute 
faith  in  them,"  she  said,  proudly.  "  Women  who  weep 
or  make  scenes,  because  their  husbands  unexpectedly 
spend  a  night  away  from  home  are  beyond  my  compre 
hension.  Either  I  believe  in  my  husband  or  I  do  not. 
If  I  believe  in  him,  surely  there  is  no  need  of  watching 
him  and  making  his  life  a  burden,  by  requiring  from, 
him  an  account  of  every  moment  he  has  spent  away 
from  me.  If  I  don't  believe  in  him,  what  difference 
does  anything  else  make  ?" 

"  You  dear,  big-hearted,  big-minded,  big-souled  dar- 


BARBARA  DERING.  193 

ling !"  exclaimed  Bering.     He  knelt  up  and  put  both 
arms  about  her. 

"  You  have  forgiven  me  entirely,  haven't  you,  dear 
est  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  how  can  you  ask?"  She  kissed  his 
eyes  and  forehead  and  stroked  lovingly  his  boyish 
curls. 

Suddenly  they  discovered  that  they  were  hungry,  and 
Dering  suggested  that  they  should  go  to  the  store-room 
and  see  if  there  were  anything  to  eat.  These  midnight 
raids  on  the  larder  they  found  delightful,  and  often 
chattered  over  an  impromptu  feast  of  this  sort  until 
nearly  one  o'clock.  Barbara  now  lighted  one  of  the 
tall  silver  candlesticks  that  stood  on  the  piano,  and 
they  went  through  the  dining-room  and  opened  the 
door  into  the  little  arched  way  which  led  to  the  store 
room.  As  soon  as  they  passed  out,  a  gust  of  wind 
whipped  the  candle-flame  down  to  a  blue  fleck,  and  the 
dogs  began  to  bark  angrily.  Barbara  held  her  skirts 
nervously  about  her,  while  Dering  tried  to  fit  the  key 
into  the  lock.  She  dreaded  that  sudden,  panting  rush 
of  the  dogs,  which  always  made  her  heart  jump  so 
foolishly.  At  last  they  got  the  store-room  door  open, 
before  the  dogs  reached  them,  and  were  at  once  en 
veloped  in  that  peculiar  musty  odor  of  cheese,  apples, 
jam,  bread,  potatoes,  meal,  cold  meat,  which  pervades 
all  store-rooms.  Then  Barbara  held  the  candle  while 
Dering  scrambled  upon  a  flour-barrel  and  investigated 
the  top  shelf.  He  found  a  huge  rosy  pear,  handed  it 
down  to  her,  and  at  once  she  thrust  her  teeth  deep 
into  the  juicy  flesh,  with  a  little  cry  of  pleasure,  dancing 
about  with  her  mouth  full,  like  a  merry  school-girl. 

Dering,  from  his  perch  on  the  flour-barrel,  gravely 
admonished  her. 

i        n  17 


194  BARBARA  DERING. 

"  You,  *  a  wife  and  a  mother,'  as  the  novels  put  it, 
to  be  capering  about  like  a  madcap!  What  would 
your  last  admirer,  the  bishop,  say?  Cease,  cease,  I 
beseech  you,  madam,  this  unseemly  conduct,  and  have 
the  grace  to  leave  me  as  much  of  that  pear  as  Eve  left 
Adam  of  the  apple." 

"  Here,  you  can  have  all  the  rest !"  cried  Barbara, 
holding  up  the  closely-nibbled  core. 

But  Bering  was  occupied  in  tearing  away  great 
crackling  bites  from  a  crisp,  wine-sap  apple,  and  did  not 
notice  this  generous  offer. 

They  found  a  round,  crimson  cheese,  some  cold 
turkey,  a  bunch  of  celery,  a  jug  of  hard  cider,  and  a 
great  loaf  of  brown  bread,  and  with  this  booty  returned 
to  the  dining-room,  where,  chattering  like  two  affec 
tionate  magpies,  they  spread  some  napkins  over  the 
green  cloth,  arranged  plates,  and  placed  knives,  spoons, 
and  forks,  Barbara  rushing  into  the  greenhouse  at  the 
last  moment,  and  bringing  in  an  azalea-bush  in  full 
flower,  "  to  make  things  pretty,"  as  she  said. 

As  she  ate,  with  that  dainty  carefulness  that  Dering 
loved,  he  watched  her,  more  enchanted  than  ever.  The 
little  gurgling  noise  which  the  cider  made  in  flowing 
down  her  throat,  and  which  might  have  irritated  him 
in  an  unloving  mood,  seemed  to  him  the  most  charming 
thing  in  the  world.  The  dewy-red  of  her  lips,  her 
pretty  way  of  lading  her  slice  of  bread  with  little 
morsels  of  the  gold-colored  cheese,  then  nibbling  it 
fastidiously  with  the  points  of  her  small  teeth, — all 
this  seemed  to  him  as  individual,  and  therefore  as 
delightful,  as  her  hair,  her  eyes,  her  voice,  her  way  of 
speaking.  He  could  not  realize  that  he  had  ever  been 
angry  with  her,  and  she  looked  so  thoroughly  the  girl, 
as  she  sat  with  her  hair  hanging  loose  about  her  shoul- 


BARBARA  DER1NG.  195 

ders,  that  he  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  their  child 
lay  sleeping  up-stairs,  only  the  hall's  length  from  their 
own  bedroom. 


XXVI. 

THE  unpleasant  emotion  which  had  risen  in  Bering 
on  learning  that  Barbara  was  to  have  a  child,  and 
which  he  called  by  various  names,  but  never  by  its 
true  one,  jealousy,  had  been  latent  for  several  weeks. 
Barbara,  in  her  position  of  mother,  seemed  to  him  as 
tonishingly  reasonable.  He  had  expected  her  to  merge 
her  individuality  into  that  of  the  little  Fairfax,  to  be 
nervous  about  the  baby's  health,  on  all  occasions, 
absent-minded  and  preoccupied  when  with  him,  a  con- 
stant  inmate  of  the  nursery,  in  constant  need  of  tete-d- 
tetes  with  the  family  doctor, — in  a  word,  the  devoted 
mother,  entirely  at  the  expense  of  the  companionable 
wife. 

As  none  of  these  changes  took  place,  ho  returned 
very  soon  to  his  normal  state  of  mind,  and  even  took  a 
strange,  humorous  sort  of  pleasure  in  the  child, — its 
queer  little  spasms  of  expression ;  its  faint  and  mys 
terious  sneezings,  which  sounded  like  the  noise  made 
by  rose-leaves  popped  on  the  back  of  one's  hand ;  its 
long  yawns  almost  dislocating  its  tiny  jaws ;  its  vague 
and  momentary  opening  of  round  black-blue  eyes. 
All  these  he  found  exquisitely  droll ;  and  when,  one  day, 
he  saw  in  its  small,  downy  face  a  certain  movement  of 
the  brows,  which  was  a  direct  inheritance  from  Bar 
bara,  he  could  not  contain  a  shout  of  amusement, 
which  terrified  Fair  into  vigorous  howlings. 

About  ten  days  after  the  Bransbys'  dinner,  however, 


196  BARBARA  DERING. 

the  baby  was  taken  suddenly  ill,  and  Poppleton,  the 
neighborhood  doctor,  had  to  be  sent  for,  at  midnight. 
As  such  things  happen,  the  weather  was  very  bitter, 
roads  and  meadows  iron-bound,  with  a  black  frost. 
Bering  detested  cold,  and  was  not  over-amiable  about 
getting  into  his  clothes  and  going  out  to  one  of  the 
cabins,  to  rouse  Tobit  and  send  him  for  the  doctor, — this 
being  necessary,  as  none  of  the  servants,  except  Martha 
Ellen  and  Aunt  Polly,  slept  in  the  house,  and  they  were 
both  busy  over  Fair. 

An  hour  later  Poppleton  was  at  Eosemary.  Bering 
had  come  down-stairs  to  get  some  whiskey,  and  was 
standing  in  his  dressing-gown  over  an  open  register 
when  the  doctor  entered.  He  was  a  huge  man,  of 
about  forty-eight,  with  a  smooth,  dark-red  face,  on 
which  no  hair  had  ever  grown,  small  dark-blue  eyes 
set  between  thick  folds  of  fat,  like  the  seeds  of  some 
fruit  in  its  pulp,  and  over  which  he  wore  gold-rimmed 
spectacles  seemingly  imbedded  in  a  crease  at  the  base 
of  his  nose.  This  feature  was  of  indefinite  outline, 
speckled  with  violet  pores  and  inclining  to  the  left. 
He  had  a  handsome  mouth,  about  which  were  deep, 
stationary  dimples,  large  jaws,  mottled  with  a  vinous 
purple,  and  surmounting  his  high,  oval  forehead  a 
dark-brown,  much-curled  wig.  When  he  laughed, 
which  was  often,  he  disclosed  splendid  yellow-white 
overlapping  teeth.  He  wore  a  faded  plum-colored 
coat,  which  was  spotted  orange,  here  and  there,  by 
spilt  physic  and  red  clay.  His  ponderous  calves  were 
strapped  into  russet  gaiters,  and  between  his  shoulders 
he  carried  a  great,  leather-covered  medicine-chest.  His 
hands,  handsome  and  glazed  with  fatness,  had  broad, 
bitten  nails,  over  which  the  pink  flesh  curled  back.  His 
custom  was  to  address  each  patient  in  the  voice  of  some 


BARBARA   BERING.  197 

other,  and  he  now  began,  in  a  high,  quavering  treble, 
which  Dering  instantly  recognized  as  that  of  an  old 
man  in  the  neighborhood  who  had  turned  Methodist 
preacher  in  his  sixty-fourth  year. 

"  So  the  little  heiress  of  Eosemary  has  the  croup  ?"  he 
trilled  forth,  with  perfect  mimicry.  "  May  the  Lord 
see  fit  to  aid  my  poor  efforts !  For  'tis  not  in  my 
physic-box  alone  to  succor  her.  Alas  !  if  such " 

"  Do  shut  up,  doctor,  and  come  along,"  said  Dering, 
curtly.  As  a  rule  he  was  "  great  friends"  with  Popple- 
ton,  who  amused  him  vastly,  but  to-night,  in  addition 
to  his  real  anxiety  about  the  child,  he  felt  that  he  had 
caught  cold  and  was  not  in  a  responsive  mood. 

The  doctor,  who  understood  and  liked  him  thor 
oughly,  smiled  good-naturedly,  and  began  to  mount  the 
stairs,  planting  each  great  creaking  foot  softly  with 
the  air  of  an  elephant  attempting  to  walk  on  tiptoe. 
Dering  followed,  determined,  as  soon  as  the  baby  had 
been  dosed,  to  ask  for  something  to  stop  his  cold.  He 
gave  a  violent  sneeze,  just  as  they  reached  the  nursery 
door,  and  resolved  angrily  that  Tobit  should  be  lodged 
in  the  house  to-morrow,  in  case  of  future  emergencies. 
As  they  entered  the  room  they  saw  Fair  striking  out 
with  her  small  fists,  in  her  effort  to  breathe.  Barbara 
was  walking  her  up  and  down,  a  fixed  expression  on  her 
pale  face.  A  sudden  throe  of  mother-love  had  seized 
her.  She  felt  that  if  the  little  creature  on  her  breast 
were  to  die,  it  would  be  like  tearing  a  piece  of  her 
heart  away  with  forceps.  Martha  Ellen  followed  her, 
with  cooing  sounds  of  comfort,  her  great  eyes  bright 
with  tears.  Mammy  Polly  at  the  fire  was  warming 
another  blanket,  the  scorched  smell  of  which  filled  the 
room. 

Somehow  Dering  felt  aggrieved  that,  although  he 
17* 


198  BARBARA  DERING. 

had  taken  a  bad  cold,  no  one  spared  him  a  thought,  hut 
seemed  utterly  absorbed  in  the  croupy  morsel  which  Bar 
bara  held  with  such  an  expression  of  dread  on  her  face. 

"  Well,  well,  well,  well,  well !"  murmured  the  doctor, 
unconsciously  falling  into  the  tone  of  Mammy  Polly, 
who  was  now  swathing  Fair  in  the  smoking  blanket. 
"  Let  me  see !  let  me  see !  Now,  honey,  you  cheer  up 
right  away  I"  he  added,  addressing  Barbara  suddenly. 
"  Here,  give  her  to  me ;  we'll  have  everything  all  right 
in  a  minute  or  two.  She'll  be  '  jes'  ez  spry  ez  a  black- 
snake  with  a  new  hoop-skirt,'  as  old  Tom  Jinx  says." 
And  here  he  adopted  the  voice  and  accent  of  another 
patient. 

Bering  sat  grumpily  resigned  close  to  the  fire,  with 
one  of  the  baby's  blankets  drawn  closely  about  him  and 
over  his  ears.  The  shrieks  of  poor  little  Fair,  the 
doctor's  cheery  jokes,  the  skurrying  back  and  forth  of 
Aunt  Polly  and  Martha  Ellen,  all  gave  more  and  more 
on  his  irritated  nerves.  Finally,  when  boiling  water 
was  poured  into  a  bucket  filled  with  lumps  of  lime,  and 
the  room  dim  with  puffs  of  the  penetrating  steam,  ho 
could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  said  that  as  he  could  be 
of  no  use  he  would  go  to  his  room,  and  the  doctor 
must  come  after  him  if  he  was  needed,  or  if  he,  Popple- 
ton,  wanted  anything.  He  built  a  huge  fire,  wrapped 
himself  in  more  rugs,  and  filling  a  tumbler  with  hot 
water  and  whiskey,  established  himself  in  an  arm-chair 
with  a  volume  of  Greek  history. 

He  was  deep  in  the  education  of  the  young  Spartans, 
and  wondering  if  Spartan  babies  ever  had  croup,  when 
Poppleton  entered  simultaneously  with  his  knock? 
wiping  his  pendulous  chin  and  the  back  of  his  huge 
neck  with  a  flowered  handkerchief.  He  nodded  cheer 
ily  at  Dering,  and  called  out  in  the  tones  of  yet  another 


BARBARA   BERING.  199 

patient,  a  young  fellow  with  a  voice  as  ill-proportioned 
to  his  size  as  that  of  a  grasshopper,  and  who  thought 
himself  a  second  Booth, — 

"'Tis  well,  'tis  very  well!  All  works  as  I  would 
have  it !  So !  Ha !  ha !"  then,  noticing  Bering's  unen- 
couraging  expression,  dropped  into  his  natural  manner 
and  said,  easily, — 

"  Little  heiress  getting  along  first-rate !  I  see  you're 
having  a  toddy  this  bitter  night.  Thermometer  only 
two  above  zero.  I  tell  you  'twas  cold  riding  here!" 
The  doctor's  air  was  a  masterpiece  of  unconsciousness, 
but  Dering  poured  him  out  four  fingers  of  whiskey, 
which  he  drank  at  once  with  the  mildness  of  a  kitten 
lapping  milk. 

"  I  say,  doctor/'  burst  forth  Bering,  abruptly,  "  what 
the  devil's  good  for  a  cold?  I've  caught  an  infernal 
one  to-night  going  out  after  some  one  to  send  for  you." 

"  Quinine,  quinine,  quinine !"  chanted  the  doctor. 

"  But  it  makes  my  head  buzz  so,"  objected  Dering, 
crossly.  "  Do  show  some  originality  in  your  prescrip 
tions  !  I've  taken  enough  quinine  for  colds  this  winter 
to  stuff  a  pin-cushion,  and  I  never  found  it  did  me  any 
good.  For  Heaven's  sake  try  again." 

"Ten  drops  of  camphor,  then.  Can  you  take  cam 
phor  ?"  said  the  doctor,  who  was  too  fond  of  him  to 
mind  his  surface  humors. 

"  I'll  take  anything,"  said  Dering,  with  gloomy  reck 
lessness. 

"Oh,  ho!  don't  I  wish  I'd  had  those  fellers  that 
granted  that  charter  for  prize  fighting  in  Virginia  in 
your  frame  of  mind !"  returned  Poppleton.  "  Wouldn't 
I  have  fixed  'em  up  with  ten  drops  of  vitriol  and 
prussic  acid  apiece !" 

"Yes,  I  know.    It's  a  disgrace  to  the  State.    But 


200  BARBARA   DERINQ. 

our  joint  opinions  on  that  subject  aren't  going  to  help 
my  cold,  are  they  ?" 

The  doctor  grinned,  while  dropping  ten  drops  of  cam 
phor  on  a  lump  of  sugar,  and  Dering  proceeded  to 
suck  it  with  that  solemnity  which  pervades  for  us  our 
personal  ailings.  Poppleton  could  not  help  laughing 
at  his  serious  face. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Dering,  unmoved,  "if  you 
had  the  colds  I  have  you  wouldn't  see  much  humor  in 
them." 

Before  the  doctor  could  reply  Barneses  appeared  at 
the  door  and  beckoned  him  away. 

Fair  recovered  from  this  attack,  but  was  feverish 
and  ailing  for  two  weeks,  during  which  time  Dering 
saw  scarcely  anything  of  Barbara.  His  cold  had 
proved  rather  severe,  and  he  was  in  bed  for  a  day  or 
two,  but  Barbara  could  not  spare  enough  time  from 
Fair  to  read  to  him,  and  he  lay  in  lonely  discomfort, 
that  aggrieved  feeling  which  had  come  over  him  in  the 
nursery  growing  ever  stronger.  They  were  both  ill, 
he  told  himself,  and  while  the  child  had  two  competent 
attendants,  Barbara  could  not  even  tear  herself  away 
from  it  long  enough  to  do  more  than  irritate  him  by 
opening  and  shutting  the  door  within  such  a  short 
space  of  time.  It  was  evident  for  which  she  felt  more 
sympathy,  more  anxiety.  Her  very  coldness  at  first 
was  all  the  more  reason  that  she  should  now  become 
excessive  in  her  fondness.  All  romance  was  over  and 
done  with !  He  went  on  lashing  himself  into  a  sort 
of  frenzy.  He  would  hear  of  nothing  now  but  croup, 
colic,  teething,  nurses,  physics,  change  of  climate! 
He  flung  himself  angrily  about,  and  finally  lay  still 
and  stared  at  his  reflection  in  a  glass  which  stood  at 
the  foot  of  his  bed. 


BARBARA   D BRING.  201 

His  sallow  face  and  the  dark  circles  about  his  eyes 
filled  him  with  a  spasm  of  self-pity. 

"  By  Jove !  she  can  see  me  look  as  ill  as  that  and 
keep  away  from  me  as  she  does !  What  a  fool  I  was 
to  build  air-castles  and  actually  fancy  them  granite! 
I  suppose  those  cynical  old  chaps  are  right  when  they 
say  that  women  are  meant  for  mothers  before  every 
thing  else !  What  a  come  down !" 

He  laughed,  and  the  savage  expression  of  his  face  in 
the  glass  struck  him  as  perfectly  appropriate  to  the 
present  state  of  affairs. 

One  afternoon,  ten  days  later,  he  and  Barbara  went 
for  a  ride.  Wilful,  Barbara's  horse,  of  which  she  was 
so  fond,  was  a  lean,  compact  chestnut,  with  a  delicate 
crest,  splendid  shoulders,  long,  elastic  pasterns,  and 
quarters  that  could  lift  him  even  over  a  snake-fence 
when  not  too  exaggerated  in  height.  His  greatest 
beauty  was  his  head,  tipped  by  slender  ears,  clear-cut 
as  though  shaped  with  a  pair  of  fine  scissors.  His 
wide  front,  splashed  with  a  large  white  star,  gave  him 
a  gracious  air,  and  his  eyes  were  overarched  by  full 
brows,  on  which  was  a  darker  pencilling.  He  carried 
his  tail  like  a  triumphant  gold  plume,  and  his  mane 
shone  like  ravellings  of  silk.  He  was  excitable  but 
entirely  kind,  and  knew  Barbara  as  her  dogs  knew 
her.  Bering's  mount  was  as  different  as  possible.  A 
powerful  half-bred  bay,  with  a  short  barrel,  head 
tapering  too  abruptly  to  a  small-nostrilled  muzzle,  pas 
terns  short  but  clean,  and  broad,  well-shaped  hoofs. 
Dering  rode  him  with  a  bit  and  bridoon,  while  Wilful' 8 
bridle  was  a  single-reined  snaffle,  very  light,  yet  with  a 
thin  bar  capable  of  hurting,  and  he  also  had  on  a  nose 
band,  as  he  pulled  a  good  deal  when  his  blood  was  up. 
Dering,  still  pale  and  fretful  from  his  cold,  fumed  about 


202  BARBARA  DERING. 

stirrups  and  saddle,  while  Barbara's  mulatto  groom 
swung  her  up  on  Wilful,  and  Barneses  fed  him  with 
sugar  to  keep  him  quiet. 

Dering  was  in  a  sore,  sullen  state  of  mind,  and, 
moreover,  had  determined  that  he  would  have  it  out 
with  Barbara,  during  this  ride  and  put  her  love  for  him 
to  the  test.  Her  gayety  and  delight  in  Wilful  and  his 
antics  jarred  on  his  nerves  more  every  instant,  espe 
cially  as  Wilful's  whirlings  and  playful  rearings  and 
backings  stung  him  now  and  then  with  anxiety  for 
Barbara.  It  seemed  to  him,  in  his  sulky  mood,  that 
she  was  reckless  and  inconsiderate,  laughing  aloud  as 
Wilful  swung  her  about  in  the  saddle,  and  letting  the 
reins  give  to  their  full  length  under  the  impatient 
movements  of  his  neck. 

As  they  began  to  canter  down  the  long  lawn,  he 
gave  way  to  his  vexation,  and  cried,  rather  crossly, — 

"If  you  can't  make  that  beggar  move  decently 
ahead  let's  pull  up  to  a  walk!"  Wilful,  in  fact,  was 
cantering  sidewise  as  deliberately  as  though  he  had 
been  a  gamesome  crab,  and  Barbara,  convulsed  with 
merriment,  was  giving  him  his  way.  She  saw  that 
Dering  was  in  a  dangerous  vein,  and  answered,  good- 
naturedly, — 

"Yes,  I  know  it's  awfully  provoking,  but  I  never 
can  make  him  walk  when  he  first  starts." 

Dering  grew  more  and  more  provoked,  but  was 
silent,  not  wishing  to  give  way  to  his  anger,  before 
finding  out  the  true  state  of  her  affections. 

It  was  one  of  those  perfect  days  which  come  so  often 
in  a  Virginia  winter.  The  air  had  that  mingled 
warmth  and  freshness  of  early  spring;  there  were  bits 
of  young  green  here  and  there ;  the  fields  undulated  in 
a  soft  wind,  and  overhead  was  a  curve  of  blue,  across 


BARBARA  DERING.  203 

which  frail  clouds  were  swept  as  by  a  gigantic  broom. 
The  roads,  spongy  and  yet  not  actually  muddy  from  a 
light  fall  of  snow,  which  was  now  thawing,  were  in 
excellent  condition  for  galloping.  Wilful  struck  out 
into  his  graceful  swinging  stride,  his  neck,  which  was 
like  iron  cased  first  in  india-rubber  and  then  in  satin, 
eagerly  arched,  his  nostrils  distended.  Close  to  his 
flank  the  big  bay,  Standby,  lumbered  steadily.  Some 
how  Barbara's  evident  delight  in  her  horse  fretted 
Bering.  He  was  in  a  mood  to  resent  any  form  of  en 
joyment  in  another.  Her  very  exuberance  of  physical 
strength  and  radiance  accentuated  his  own  dragged- 
down  condition  and  sensation  of  inertness. 

"  Er — I'm  not  feeling  very  fit,"  he  began,  when  they 
had  settled  into  a  trot  along  an  uneven  bit  of  road. 
"  I  need  some  toning  up,  I  fancy,  and  then,  too,  I'm 
getting  pretty  sick  of  doing  nothing.  It's  an  awfully 
lazy  life  that  we've  been  leading." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  that  you  had  some  steady  occupation, 
Jock,"  answered  Barbara,  brightly.  "  I  don't  think 
that  any  one  can  be  really  happy  without  it." 

"  Well,  there's  a  splendid  chance  for  change  of  scene 
open  to  us,"  said  Bering,  with  an  air  of  such  intense 
unconsciousness  that  she  at  once  decided  he  was  about 
to  propose  some  extraordinary  scheme.  "  I've  had  an 
invitation  from  Leland, — you  know  that  fellow  who's 
so  interested  in  social  questions, — we  were  college 
chums.  Well,  he's  going  West  on  a  sort  of  shooting 
and  investigation  tour  combined, — private  car  and  all 
that.  He  wants  us  to  come, — you  and  me.  Mrs. 
Leland's  a  charming  little  woman, — crazy  to  know 
you.  In  fact,  they're  both  awfully  keen  about  your 
coming." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly. 


204  BARBARA  DERING. 

"But  Fair!"  she  asked,  finally.  "We  couldn't  drag 
a  baby  of  that  age  along  with  us  ?" 

"I  should  fancy  not!"  exclaimed  Bering.  "I 
certainly  don't  propose  making  nuisances  of  our 
selves  !" 

Barbara  thought  that  the  invitation  might  have  been 
given  for  a  later  date,  and  asked  when  they  were  ex 
pected  to  be  ready. 

"  In  ten  days.  They  start  from  Washington  on  a 
Wednesday." 

She  was  silent  for  some  moments,  trying  to  compre 
hend  whether  really  he  wished  her  to  leave  the  child 
so  soon  after  its  severe  illness. 

"  Well,"  he  broke  out,  impatiently,  "  shall  I  write 
and  accept,  or  do  you  think  it  would  be  better  if  you 
were  to  do  it  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean,  Jock,  that  you  wish  me  to  leave  Fair 
while  she  is  so  delicate?" 

"  Delicate  ?  Fiddlesticks !  You  young  mammas  are 
like  Chicken  Little  when  the  leaf  fell  on  her  back ; 
she  thought  the  sky  was  falling,  and  you  go  to  pieces 
over  a  simple  attack  of  croup!  I  don't  suppose  there 
ever  was  a  baby  who  didn't  pull  through  attacks  of 
croup  more  or  less  sharp.  Julius  Caesar,  Oliver  Crom 
well,  Napoleon  Bonaparte, — they  all  had  it  I'd  stake 
my  life !" 

"  Fair  didn't  have  a  simple  attack  of  croup,  Jock. 
She  had  diphtheritic  sore-throat,  and  is  liable  to  other 
attacks  like  it,  until  the  cold  weather  is  over." 

"  Oh,  I  might  have  known  you'd  make  the  worst  of 
it  all,  just  to  avoid  leaving  her  for  a  week  or  two !  I 
must  say  you're  about  as  '  hoodooed'  by  your  first-born 
as  any  one  I  ever  saw." 

Barbara  flushed,  then  after  a  second  said,  quietly,  "  I 


BARBARA  DERING.  205 

think  it's  very  natural  that  I  should  not  want  to  leave 
her  as  weak  as  she  is  now." 

"  There's  Mrs.  Bransby !  She  knows  any  amount  more 
about  babies  than  you  do.  Leave  the  brat  with  her!" 

Barbara  flushed  still  more,  then  grew  pale. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  satisfied  to  leave  her  with  any  one. 
If  she  were  to  be  very  ill  and  I  away  enjoying  myself, 
I  should  never  get  over  it." 

"  I  suppose  not.  But  I  may  be  as  ill  as  I  like,  and 
you  don't  ever  see  it,  so  long  as  that  kid  is  ailing  I" 

Barbara  gripped  the  edge  of  her  saddle  with  her 
right  hand  in  her  effort  for  self-control.  "  I  thought 
you  had  only  a  bad  cold,"  she  then  said.  "  Do  you  feel 
really  ill?  Have  you  kept  anything  from  me?"  Her 
eyes  had  grown  suddenly  anxious.  This  touched  him, 
and  for  the  moment  his  tone  was  softer. 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  serious,"  he  assured  her.  "  I'm 
run  down  and  seedy,  that's  all.  But  I  feel  the  need 
of  a  change.  Do  ask  Mrs.  Bransby  to  look  after  the 
child,  there's  a  darling,  and  come  along  with  me!" 
He  leaned  over  and  put  an  impulsive  arm  about  her 
waist,  and  the  horses,  used  to  such  manoeuvres,  nipped 
at  each  other  with  a  friendly  pretence  of  enmity. 

She  looked  puzzled  and  worried,  then  turned  her 
dark  eyes  on  him  appealingly,  and  said,  "  Jocko,  you 
know  how  much  I'd  like  to  go  with  you,  but  indeed, 
indeed  I  feel  that  I  cannot  leave  Fair  just  now." 

He  withdrew  his  arm  with  angry  roughness  and 
touched  Standby  into  a  brisk  trot.  Wilful  cantered 
airily  a  half-length  ahead,  and  some  bits  of  mud  were 
thrown  against  Dering's  shoulders. 

"  1  wish  you'd  have  the  ordinary  politeness  not  to 
spatter  me  all  over  with  mud  from  that  confounded 
brute's  heels !"  he  called  out. 

18 


206  BARBARA  BERING. 

Barbara  brought  Wilful  down  into  a  trot  also,  but 
did  not  say  anything.  She  felt  sure  that  if  her  hus 
band  kept  up  that  tone  with  her  the  discussion  would 
end  in  a  quarrel. 

Presently  he  began  again  : 

"  So  you  refuse,  then,  do  you,  to  go  with  me,  though 
I  tell  you  I'm  feeling  wretchedly  and  need  your  com 
panionship!  How  I  have  heard  you  excoriate  that 
trait  in  other  women !"  he  laughed.  "  Well,  it's  the  old 
thing  of  a  fellow-feeling  making  us  wondrous  kind,  I 
suppose!  That's  it!  Eh?" 

Barbara's  lip  trembled,  but  there  were  no  tears  in 
her  eyes.  She  had  long  since  learned  to  repress  this 
sign  of  emotion,  finding  that  in  moods  like  this  it  only 
goaded  Dering  to  further  harshness. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  put  it  that  way,  Jock," 
she  said,  at  length,  in  a  low  voice,  speaking  all  the 
more  gently  that  she  felt  her  own  temper  rising.  "  I 
despise  the  lack  of  fire  which  makes  women  slight 
their  husbands  for  their  children  as  much  as  ever ;  but 
duty  is  duty.  When  I  see  that  a  thing  is  right  I  must 
do  it,  or  at  least  I  must  try  to  do  it.  Don't  you  know 
that  I  would  leave  Fair  in  a  minute — in  a  second — to 
come  to  you  if  you  were  seriously  ill .?" 

Dering  was  silent,  and  continued  to  smile  as  though 
over  mysterious  and  enlightening  thoughts. 

"Speak,  Jock!  You  know  that!"  cried  Barbara, 
growing  impatient.  "  At  least  you  must  acknowledge 
that  I've  always  been  truthful.  You  must  believe 
what  I  say." 

"  Well,"  replied  Dering,  slowly,  "  I  confess  it's  rather 
hard  to  take  in  what  you  say  to  me  with  such  opposite 
facts  staring  me  in  the  face." 

"What    facts?"    said    Barbara.      "My    child— our 


BARBARA  DERING.  207 

child  has  been  seriously,  even  dangerously,  ill.  I  don't 
want  to  leave  her  and  go  West  for  an  indefinite  length 
of  time.  Are  those  the  facts  you  mean?  Is  there 
anything  in  that  but  what  is  womanly,  natural, 
wifely?" 

"  Womanly  and  natural,  I  admit,"  he  sneered,  "  but — 
er — hardly  what  you  could  call  wifely." 

"  Would  you  really  have  me  leave  Fair  ?" 

"  With  your  friend  Eunice  ?    Assuredly." 

"  And  if  she  were  to  be  very,  very  ill  ?" 

"  She  would  be  in  far  better  hands  than  those  of  an 
enthusiastic  and  ignorant  young  mother,  who  would 
probably  keel  over  in  a  dead  faint  at  the  first  bad 
symptom." 

"  You  are  unjust !"  flashed  Barbara. 

"  My  dear  Bab,  calling  me  names  won't  alter  facts." 

"  How  can  you  love  me,  as  you  say  you  do,  and  yet 
speak  to  me  like  this  ?" 

"  Our  ideas  of  love  probably  differ  as  much  as  our 
ideas  of  duty,  my  dear  girl." 

"  I  cannot  understand  you !"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  can 
not  take  in  that  you  are  really  angry  because  I  won't 
leave  a  poor,  helpless,  ill  little  baby  to  the  care  of 
others,  when  it  is  my  simple  duty  to  stay  with  her. 
But  you're  not  my  Jock  this  afternoon.  You're  in  one 
of  your  black  moods.  I  am  sure  you'll  see  things 
differently  to-morrow." 

"Are  you?"  he  answered,  briefly,  with  a  scowl  and  a 
grin  together.  "  Then  it'll  be  a  devilish  good  thing  if 
you  get  that  notion  out  of  your  head,  as  you're  laying 
up  a  lively  disappointment  for  yourself." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  use  such  expressions  to  me, 
Jock." 

"What    damned    nonsense!"  he   retorted,  roughly. 


208  BARBARA  BERING. 

"  You're  not  over-squeamish  yourself  when  your  blood's 
up !  Come  now,  be  honest  about  it !  You  know  I 
caught  you  swearing  the  other  day,  or,  if  not  swearing, 
using  jolly  strong  expletives.  Did  you  or  did  you  not 
say, '  Plague  take  the  cussed  thing !'  when  you  couldn't 
get  your  stirrup  tight  ?  Eh  ?  Answer  me  that,  my 
Lady  Highty-Tighty  I" 

Barbara  almost  broke  into  a  laugh,  but  her  anger 
conquered,  and  she  merely  curled  a  disdainful  lip  in 
reply. 

"  Because  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  fumed  on.  " * Plague 
take  it'  is  about  as  abominable  an  expression  as  could 
be  used,  when  you  come  down  to  it.  The  plague  is  a 
filthy  disease,  and  when  you  say  those  words  you  are 
calling  it  down  on  the  object  of  your  wrath !" 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  plague  could  materially  in 
jure  a  stirrup-leather?"  asked  Barbara,  gravely.  "  Be 
cause,  if  so,  I  will  ask  in  my  prayers  to-night  to  be 
forgiven." 

"  We'll  let  that  go,"  said  Dering,  who  was  now  of  a 
curious  steely  pallor.  "  But  at  least  you'll  admit  that 
1  cussed'  is,  to  say  the  least,  a  vulgar,  unlady-like  word ; 
or  perhaps  you  won't  admit  it  ?" 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Barbara,  with  an  air  of  disgusted  weari 
ness,  "I'll  admit  anything,  if  you'll  only  let  me  take 
the  rest  of  my  ride  in  peace." 

"There's  another  charming  trait  you've  developed 
this  afternoon  !"  he  retorted.  "  You  are  willing,  then, 
to  admit  an  untruth  for  the  sake  of  your  personal 
comfort!  Jove!  I  am  glad  to  know  that!  That'll 
save  me  a  world  of  bother  in  future  discussions." 

"  I'm  glad  to  know  that  I've  helped  you  to  a  clearer 
knowledge  of  my  character,"  she  replied,  recklessly 
giving  way  to  the  temptation  of  sarcastic  retorts. 


BARBARA   BERING.  209 

Glancing  at  him,  she  was  overcome  with  that  sense  of 
his  ugliness,  which  during  his  fits  of  temper,  seemed  to 
her  to  blot  out  every  vestige  of  good  looks,  from  face 
and  figure.  His  whole  presence  revolted  her.  She 
shivered  and  settled  herself  more  firmly  in  the  saddle. 
"  If  he  will  only  content  himself  with  sulking  and  let 
me  alone,"  she  thought,  wearily.  "  He  does  make  me 
so  wicked !  My  tongue  stings  like  an  adder,  after  he 
has  goaded  me  beyond  a  certain  length  of  time.  Oh, 
if  he  will  only  let  me  alone !  It  is  so  horrible !  When 
he  is  like  this  I  don't  love  him.  I  long  to  get  away 
from  him.  What  have  I  done  to  rouse  this  mood  in 
him?  Let  me  think."  She  went  over  everything 
that  had  passed  between  them  for  a  month,  but  with 
out  arriving  at  any  solution  of  his  present  frame  of 
mind. 

"  Of  course  you  know  what  the  world  will  say  ?"  he 
began,  so  abruptly  that  she  started  and  changed  color. 

"  What  ?"  she  asked,  with  some  vagueness. 

"  Why,  they'll  say  I'm  tired  of  you  and  in  love  with 
Mrs.  Leland." 

"  Oh,  Jock,  how  vulgar !"  breathed  Barbara,  her  eyes 
full  of  disgust  rather  than  anger.  "  Don't  you  know 
that  if  I  could  think  such  things  of  you  I  should  stop 
loving  you  ?" 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you'd  do  under  given 
circumstances,  my  dear.  You've  turned  out,  in  nearly 
everything,  the  exact  opposite  of  what  you  seemed 
before  marriage, — cold,  prudent,  selfish,  conventional, 
a  baby-worshipper,  a  shrew,  a " 

"  I  won't  listen  to  such  words !"  cried  Barbara,  her 
eyes  in  a  flame. 

"  And  pray,  my  dear,  how  will  you  prevent  my  ex 
pressing  my  sincere  opinions  ?  You  cannot  strike  me 
o  18* 


210  BARBARA  DERING. 

with  dumbness,  because  what  I  say  puts  you  in  a  rage, 
can  you?  I  repeat  it.  You've  turned  out  a  shrew 
and  a  scold  and  I " 

But  Wilful  had  sprung  two  lengths  ahead,  under  a 
sudden  touch  of  her  heel,  and  was  sending  back  the 
sticky  soil  in  showers. 

"  Oh,  that's  your  game,  is  it  ?  You  vixen !"  ground 
out  Dering.  He  slashed  the  bay  savagely  with  hia 
cutting  whip,  and  for  a  moment  the  two  galloped 
abreast.  He  laughed  exultantly. 

"  Did  you  really  think  you  could  ride  away  from  mo 
in  that  style,  you  mad  thing!"  he  chuckled.  "  I'll  tell 
you,  then,  there's  something  in  the  way  one  rides  as 
well  as  in  one's  mount,  and  you'll  find  that  a  poor  way 
of  trying  to  escape  me.  You  saucy  vixen,  you !" 

"Ah,  Wilful,  off  with  you,  sweetheart!"  cried  Bar 
bara. 

Dering  gave  a  gasp  of  mingled  rage  and  astonish 
ment,  for,  gathering  his  strong  legs  under  him,  the 
great  chestnut  swept  past  and  on  down  the  slanting 
road,  like  a  streak  of  fire.  As  they  flew,  Barbara  turned 
her  white  face,  and,  lifting  her  whip,  waved  it  mock 
ingly.  All  the  brute  was  up  in  Dering.  He  desired 
only  to  overtake,  to  conquer,  to  crush.  He  saw,  in  the 
graceful  figure  ahead  of  him,  not  the  woman  loved 
through  happy  hours,  but  an  insolent  and  defiant  force 
which  must  be  mastered  and  compelled  into  the  direc 
tion  which  he  desired  it  to  take.  The  bay's  sleek  hide 
was  streaked  with  weals  from  his  whip,  and  it  pounded 
on  with  all  the  speed  in  its  power.  Wilful,  however, 
fleet  and  light  as  a  deer,  steadily  increased  the  distance 
between  them  until,  with  an  oath,  Dering  pulled  up, 
seeing  that  pursuit  was  useless.  Then  Barbara  soothed 
Wilful  into  a  walk  and  waited  until  Dering  came  up 


BARBARA  DERING.  211 

with  her.  He  was  too  breathless  between  rage  and  the 
pace  at  which  he  had  been  going  to  speak  for  some 
time. 

Finally  he  said,  with  shut  teeth, — 

"  You'll  be  sorry  for  this." 

"  Oh,  Jock,"  she  returned,  wearily,  "  don't  threaten. 
You  know  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything  in  the 
world,  and  that  nothing  could  make  me  afraid." 

"  Upon  my  soul,"  he  exclaimed,  "  there's  something 
monstrous  about  you !  You're  not  like  a  woman.  You 
are  like  some  curious  mythological  creature.  Have 
you  got  any  heart  or  blood  in  you?  Heaven  help 
your  child !  I  tremble  when  I  think  it's  mine,  too.  It 
will  probably  live  to  curse  me  and  bring  disgrace  upon 
my  name !" 

"You  are  beside  yourself,"  said  Barbara,  quietly. 
"  I  forgive  you,  because  I  am  sure  that  you  don't  know 
what  you  are  saying,  but  I  tell  you  again  that  I  will 
not  listen.  If  you  go  on,  I  shall  ride  off  again." 

"  You  will,  will  you  ?  You  fury !"  he  cried,  making 
a  lunge  at  her  rein ;  but  she  was  a  perfect  horsewoman. 
Easily  avoiding  him,  she  again  gave  Wilful  his  head, 
and,  delighted  at  this  game  of  racing  in  short  heats,  he 
was  off  and  away  with  a  purring  snort  of  pleasure. 

When  Barbara  again  allowed  Dering  to  come  up 
with  her,  they  were  both  silent  for  some  moments.  At 
last  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, — 

"  Jock,  don't  let  us  quarrel  any  more.  I  am  sorry  if 
I  have  said  anything  to  provoke  you,  and  I  know  you 
did  not  mean  the  things  you  said  to  me  just  now. 
Married  life  is  so  dreadful  if  such  bitter  words  are 
spoken.  Somehow  one  can  never  quite  get  over  them. 
They  are  like  ink-spots  on  a  white  gown.  Either  the 
stain  is  never  completely  done  away  with,  or  some- 


212  BARBARA  DERINO. 

thing  has  to  be  used  which  injures  the  stuff.  Either 
one  forgives  without  forgetting,  or  forgets  because  one 
ceases  to  care." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly,  pleadingly,  her  heart 
beating  fast,  her  hand  stretched  out.  For  a  moment 
the  truth  of  these  words  changed  Bering's  mood.  Then 
his  face  congealed  into  its  former  hardness  and  he 
answered  in  a  cold  voice, — 

"  Perhaps  you  think  I  don't  see  your  woman's  trick 
of  shifting  your  ground.  It  was  a  very  clever  move, 
but  I  am  not  to  be  hoodwinked  that  way.  You  must 
have  had  pretty  soft  fools  to  manage  before  you  met 
me." 

Barbara's  face  hardened  also,  and  she  pressed  her 
lips  together  in  order  to  keep  back  a  stinging  reply. 

"  I'm  not  the  type  of  husband,  let  me  tell  you  once 
for  all,"  continued  Dering,  "  who  thrives  on  hen-peck 
ing.  Now  that  I  see  you  care  more  for  that  helpless 
bundle  at  home  than  you  do  for  me,  I  shall  retire 
gracefully.  You  needn't  fear  that  I  will  annoy  you 
further.  I  shall,  of  course,  accept  the  Lelands'  invita 
tion  and  go  West  with  them.  I  can't  tell  when  I'll  be 
back.  I'll  send  you  my  address  from  Washington." 

He  paused  as  if  waiting  for  her  to  answer,  and  she 
said  in  a  voice  as  cold  as  his  own, — 

"  Yery  well.  I  hope  that  you  will  have  a  pleasant 
trip." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  replied. 

They  passed  the  rest  of  the  ride  in  silence. 


BARBARA   DERINQ.  213 


XXVII. 

THE  only  thought  which  presented  itself  clearly  to 
her,  in  this  disturbed  seething  of  her  mind,  was  that 
she  must  get  away  from  the  house — from  every  one — 
to  that  deep  loneliness  of  nature  which  had  always 
seemed  to  her,  in  wild  moments,  like  a  tranquil  hand 
upon  her  heart. 

She  did  not  ring  for  Rameses,  but  took  off  her  habit 
with  nervous  haste  and  drew  on  her  short  walking- 
skirt  and  mountain-boots.  As  she  stole  swiftly  and 
noiselessly  along  the  winding  corridors  she  felt,  as  she 
had  so  often  done  in  a  bad  dream,  as  if  she  were  being 
drawn  backward ;  as  if  some  hand  might  catch  and 
detain  her ;  as  if  Dering  were  about  to  step  before  her 
from  some  dark  closet  or  turning.  At  last,  however, 
she  was  out  in  the  large  air  of  the  winter  day.  Already 
the  sun  was  trailing  after  him  the  languid  shadows  of 
his  westering  course.  The  ploughed  fields  showed  a 
soft  feathering  of  young  oats,  and  great  clods,  smooth 
from  the  ploughshare,  crumbled  like  nuggets  of  burnt 
gold  in  the  level  glare.  Clouds,  delicate,  transparent, 
rosy-white,  meshed  the  dim  azure  of  the  sky.  Here 
and  there  came  a  bleak  glimmer  of  snow  from  some 
violet  shadow.  The  soft  trill-like  drip  of  thawing 
snow  upon  dead  leaves  made  a  sweet  whisper  through 
out  the  winter  wood.  Above,  the  heavens  were  hung 
between  the  mist  of  branches  like  a  great  blue  cobweb. 
She  heard  some  fox-hounds,  far  up  the  mountain-side, 
swell  their  deep  plaintive  notes,  and  turning  into  a 
little  path  that  zigzagged  upward  among  the  under- 


214  BARBARA  DERINO. 

brush,  quickened  her  steps  in  the  direction  of  their 
baying. 

A  chill  fragrance  from  the  damp  junipers  soon  en 
veloped  her,  and  the  patches  of  snow  grew  thicker 
and  broader.  She  saw  upon  this  white  carpet  the 
marks  of  bird's  feet,  the  print  of  little  hoofs.  It 
seemed  to  her,  in  the  exhilaration  of  climbing,  that 
some  baby  faun  might  have  scampered  away  into  the 
distant  mist  of  soft,  gray,  leafless  stems.  The  acorri 
which  he  had  been  nibbling  lay  there  beside  the  hoof- 
prints.  Morsels  of  yet  unmelted  snow  clung  here  and 
there  to  the  dark  cedar  boughs  like  drowsy  white 
birds.  Even  the  moist  red  clay  had  a  clean  perfume  of 
its  own,  and  a  hare,  warily  stealing  towards  a  baited 
trap,  paused,  quivered  up  on  its  haunches,  and  display 
ing  its  sleek  breast  and  fine-veined  ears,  fixed  on  her  its 
liquid  eyes.  Then  all  at  once,  terrified,  alert,  drummed 
quickly  with  its  strong  hind  feet,  and  whirling,  leaped 
away  into  the  tangled  weeds. 

Her  heart  began  to  beat  quickly  now  and  her  breath 
came  fast.  She  was  on  the  steepest  flank  of  the  moun 
tain,  and  the  narrow  path  which  she  followed  wound 
far  above  her  head.  But  the  keenness  of  her  mental 
suffering  seemed  a  force  which  impelled  her  body  on 
ward.  As  long  as  she  forced  her  supple  muscles  into 
energy  the  tumult  in  her  soul  seemed  quieted.  She 
grew  so  warm  that,  as  she  walked,  she  drew  off  her 
jacket  and  threw  it  across  her  shoulder.  The  heated 
blood  throbbed  stinging  through  her  veins,  and  the  ex 
ultation  of  sheer  physical  life  grew  upon  her  with  each 
powerful  movement.  Presently  the  quick  panting 
ceased.  She  closed  her  lips  and  breathed  easily ;  took 
off  her  white  beret  and  ran  her  fingers  through  her 
damp  hair.  The  air  made  a  cool  streak  across  her 


BARBARA  DERING.  215 

forehead.  It  was  like  the  kiss  of  some  invisible  but 
friendly  presence.  Already  that  efficient  calm  of 
mountain  solitude  was  upon  her.  Already  the  valley, 
with  its  troubled  life,  seemed  vague,  distant,  remote, 
apart ;  its  purplish  mist,  like  the  vapors  which  arise 
from  weird,  untranquil  dreams ;  the  harsh  note  of  a 
distant  locomotive,  like  the  cry  of  some  unfortunate, 
half  lapped  in  the  incomplete  unconsciousness  which 
begets  such  visions.  She  thought  of  those  melodious 
words  which  ever  sing  themselves  to  a  silent  music  of 
the  mind, — 

"  Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height, 
For  love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down." 

"  No,  no !"  she  said,  aloud.  "  True  love  is  of  the 
heights."  And  then  started  with  that  strange  self- 
consciousness  which  overpowers  one,  at  the  sound  of 
one's  own  voice  falling  upon  solitude.  She  paused  and 
leaned  for  a  moment  against  a  tree  to  rest.  Her  collie, 
who  had  rushed  ahead,  came  up  and  gazed  at  her, 
panting.  The  crisp  white  of  a  snow-streak  near  by 
suggested  thirst,  and  he  dashed  his  sharp  muzzle  along 
its  crust  and  gobbled  a  mouthful  or  two,  then  looked 
eagerly  up  at  Barbara  again,  who  gave  her  girlish 
laugh,  and  stooping  gathered  a  handful,  which  she  ate 
daintily.  Her  blood,  changed  by  the  vigorous  exercise 
of  the  last  half-hour,  was  ready  to  receive  new  im 
pressions.  This  plentiful  silence  pressed  against  her, 
charged  with  myriad  suggestions.  The  soft  hand  was 
upon  her  heart. 

In  Barbara  there  was  much  of  that  bounteous  Pagan 
spirit  which  first  stirred  the  world  to  belief  in  the 
soul  permeating  all  things.  To  her  each  leaf,  each 


216  BARBARA  DERING. 

transient  cloud,  each  shadow  traced  in  varying  light, 
each  fluctuating  splendor  of  the  day  had  its  individu 
ality,  its  message,  its  conscious  being,  as  of  what  we 
call  spirit.  To  her  the  friendly  silence  was,  at  the 
same  time,  comprehending.  There  seemed  to  rise  a 
courage  and  consolation  to  her  from  the  strong,  bitter 
smell  of  the  damp  earth.  The  wind,  seizing  her 
roughly  by  hair  and  garments,  was  more  sympathetic 
than  the  alien  presence  of  another  human  being.  The 
forward  leap  of  a  swollen  mountain  stream  beat  sharp 
and  true  upon  a  like  chord  in  her  heart, — its  rush,  its 
turbidness,  its  savagery,  she  had  felt  them  all.  When 
a  bird  alighted  near  her,  unafraid,  even  ventured  to 
peck  at  the  branch  of  scarlet  berries  which  she  had 
broken  off,  from  the  mere  child-wish  to  have  its  beauty 
with  her  on  her  lonely  walk,  she  was  faint  with  pleasure 
at  its  sweet  confiding,  and  feared  to  breathe,  lest  she 
should  frighten  it  from  her.  If,  by  some  magic,  she 
could  have  thrown  herself  into  its  being,  how  quickly 
she  would  have  mastered  its  loves,  its  dreads,  its  pleas 
ures  !  How,  as  a  girl,  this  desire  to  be  one  with  the 
all-spirit  had  possessed  her !  She  had  longed  to  be  a 
thousand  different  women,  to  pass  through  a  thousand 
experiences,  happy  and  sorrowful,  to  exhaust,  by  a 
series  of  brilliant  existences,  every  world  in  space,  to 
feel  all,  see  all,  know  all,  possess  all, — laughter,  wretch 
edness,  despair,  glory,  failure,  victory,  beauty.  She 
had  tried  to  imagine  how  the  growing  flowers  felt, 
the  trees,  the  humming-birds  swinging  in  the  crape- 
myrtle  bells.  How  huge  everything  must  have  looked 
to  them !  How  intensely  they  must  have  felt !  She 
would  have  liked  to  suck  the  very  essence  of  life,  in  a 
few  hours  of  vivid  frenzy.  As  a  bird,  she  would  have 
flown  until  her  wings  failed  and  she  had  dropped  swift 


BARBARA  DERINO.  217 

and  straight  into  the  sea  below,  or  dashed  her  head 
against  the  great  glass  of  some  glaring  light-house. 

This  old  mood  caught  and  shook  her  to  the  soul.  A 
blind  despair  of  longing  for  her  dead  maidenhood  over- 
rushed  her.  She  put  both  arms  about  the  huge  bole 
of  the  tulip-tree  against  which  she  leant  and  pressed 
her  lips  to  its  rough  bark.  In  her  heart  were  some 
such  thoughts  as  these  :  "  Dear  tree  !  If  I  were  only  a 
Dryad,  and,  folded  in  your  fragrant  rind,  could  listen  to 
the  stealthy  pulsing  of  the  sap  through  your  great 
boughs,  and  grow  glad  with  the  spring  which  will 
make  you  green  again ;  if,  resting  so,  a  part  of  you  as 
your  young  leaves  will  be,  I  could  feel  with  you  the 
thrill  of  the  midnight  storm,  the  clutching  feet  of 
frightened  birds,  the  palpitations  of  close-scrambling 
squirrels ;  in  the  morning  the  clash  of  your  ice-coated 
branches,  glittering  golden  through  the  fresh  sunlight. 
At  sunset  to  be  warmed  gloriously  and  drowned  in  sheets 
of  flame-color.  To  rest,  to  sleep,  to  live  in  you  and 
with  you,  and  then,  freeing  myself  in  certain  hours  of 
liberty,  to  range  the  voiceless  woods,  unafraid  of  snow 
or  storm,  secure  in  delicate  emotions,  incapable  of 
disturbance !" 

All  this,  wildly  and  chaotically  massed,  surged 
through  her,  as  she  clung  to  the  great  tree,  her  tears 
first  warming  and  then  chilling  her  flushed  face.  While 
she  paused  there,  however,  a  gray  flag  of  cloud  had 
been  unrolled  above.  There  was  a  shiver  of  wind 
throughout  the  forest.  A  drop  fell  upon  her  out 
stretched  hand, — another,  yet  another.  But  suddenly 
the  wind  veered  and  tore  an  oval  space  in  the  steaming 
air  above, — a  rift  of  blue  sky  shone  serenely  as  a  gem, 
widened  into  placid  magnificence,  possessed  the  upper 
day.  That  strong,  eager  life-joy  welled  ever  higher  in 
K  19 


218  BARBARA  BERING. 

Barbara.  Her  red  lips  were  parted.  Her  eyes  were 
eager  as  Robin's,  who  leaped  and  circled  in  front  of  her 
like  her  keen  mood  made  visible. 

Now  the  baying  of  the  hounds  rang  out  again, — first 
near  at  hand,  then  growing  fainter  and  fainter  in  the 
distance.  She  reached  a  primitive  fence,  made  of  a  rail 
or  two  stuffed  with  underbrush,  and  in  a  bound  was 
over,  Robin  close  at  her  heels.  The  trees  were  grow 
ing  thinner,  and  dwindled  finally  into  plantations  of 
sassafras,  with  here  and  there  the  glossy  green  plume 
of  a  scrub  pine.  All  at  once  she  found  herself  in  a 
steep  open  field,  covered  with  rustling  yellow  broom, 
which  came  into  exquisite  contrast  with  the  floating 
clouds  beyond.  Above,  on  the  comb  of  the  hill,  was  a 
bristling  of  purple  sassafras-bushes  against  the  white- 
blue  sky,  their  stems  hidden  by  the  rich  broom-straw, 
which  grew  above  her  shoulders.  The  dim  red  path 
wound  up  and  up,  and  all  about  was  that  dry,  seething 
sound,  followed  by  a  soft  rattle  in  the  limbs  of  tho 
stunted  pear-tree  springing  from  a  pile  of  stones. 
Here  and  there  velvety  scarlet  pyramids  of  sumac- 
berries  burnt  on  their  blue-gray  stems.  The  far  valley 
was  like  a  pale-lilac  cloth  spread  smoothly.  It  seemed 
to  melt  away  at  last  and  to  become  absorbed  in  space. 
Above,  the  small,  round,  overlapping  clouds  were  like 
the  shells  on  a  broad  beach,  and  they  were  suggested 
again  by  the  little  ovals  of  snow  clustering  in  tho 
shadows  of  the  hill-side.  A  golden  robin  on  a  sassafras- 
tree,  near  her  foot,  turned  its  head  sideways  and  peered 
up  at  her,  half  its  brilliant  speck  of  eye  hidden  by  the 
bluish  lower  lid.  A  pregnant  and  spacious  silence 
floated  on  every  side.  Barbara  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  sinking  on  her  knees  stretched  out  her  young,  vig 
orous  arms,  as  though  yearning  over  the  sorrowful 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  219 

world  which  lay  spread  out  beneath  her.  In  those 
throbbing  moments  she  realized  why  Christ  had  with 
drawn  upon  mountains  to  pray.  The  noble  outlines 
of  the  dumb,  majestic  peaks  about  her  were  themselves 
like  petrified  prayers.  Here  upon  this  great  crest  a 
purer  air  came  winnowing  in,  a  holier  light  seemed  to 
diffuse  itself  from  the  near  heavens.  Here  there  was 
only  the  soothing  acquiescence  of  nature,  the  boun 
teous  and  unobtrusive  peace  which  hallows  the  dwell 
ings  of  humble  creatures,  whose  lives  are  passed  in 
such  loneliness,  and  who  are  content  to  know  the  dis 
tant  valley  only  as  a  great  chess-board  with  squares 
of  amethyst  and  carnelian  glimmering  mysteriously 
through  a  lawny  haze.  She  seemed  to  have  left  her 
anger,  her  rebellion,  her  despairing  grief  all  there 
under  the  roof  of  Eosemary,  which  she  saw  with  its 
clustering  out-houses  glittering  like  a  handful  of  pearl- 
colored  pebbles  among  its  smoke-like  trees,  far  below 
her.  Her  heart  contracted,  as  she  thought  of  returning 
to  it.  Unfastening  her  heavy  hair,  she  plunged  her 
fingers  into  its  masses  and  let  the  wind  streak  coolly 
through  it.  There  was  only  the  golden  robin,  the 
sheer  air,  the  rustling  broom-field,  her  dog,  to  witness 
this  unconventionality.  She  laughed  to  feel  the  strong 
gusts  combing  out  her  loose  locks  behind  her  like  a 
gleaming  pennon.  She  felt  enveloped  by  a  sweet 
friendliness  of  things  animate  and  inanimate,  and  as 
though  she  had  grown  backward,  reaching  again  her 
blithe  girlhood.  Even  Valentine  was  like  some  quiet 
hero,  of  whom  she  had  read  in  a  jewelled  book  of 
fairy-land, — Dering  and  her  child  part  of  an  uneasy 
dream.  She  was  sixteen,  as  she  lay  there  among  the 
feathery  stalks  of  broom,  her  hands  clasped  beneath 
her  head,  her  hair  blowing  loose  about  her.  It  seemed 


220  BARBARA  DERING. 

to  her  that  she  was  on  the  prow  of  a  great  ship  which 
was  plunging  onward  through  billows  of  golden 
air. 

Then  presently  she  got  to  her  feet,  twisted  up  her 
hair,  and,  calling  to  Eobin,  began  to  climb  again,  for 
the  summit  of  the  mountain  was  not  yet  reached. 
The  path  now  broadened  into  a  road  which,  skirting 
the  edge  of  a  thick  wood,  brought  her  finally  to 
another  fence.  Beyond  this  lay  a  cornfield,  from 
which  the  meadows  below  looked  of  a  soft  gray  rose 
color.  Still  farther  hung  a  curtain  of  bluish  mist,  and 
against  this  mellow  background  the  stripped  corn 
stalks  lifted  their  tufts  of  faded  orange  leaves.  The 
furrows  were  still  striped  with  snow.  Through  this 
meadow  Barbara  and  Robin  went  running  until  they 
came  to  a  sharp  declivity,  down  which  the  road 
plunged  boldly,  to  rise  again  on  a  hill-side,  steeper  than 
any  yet,  its  top  outlined  by  another  fence  and  the  gray 
puffs  of  leafless  apple-boughs.  When  they  had  climbed 
this,  however,  Barbara,  leaning  breathless  against  the 
lichened  rails,  looked  down  into  an  unfamiliar  valley, 
and  saw,  like  a  wall  of  lapis-lazuli  austerely  carved 
against  the  soft  pale  air,  the  vague  and  spiritual  beauty 
of  the  Blue  Eidge. 

A  man  was  ploughing  on  the  hill-crest  opposite. 
The  horses  moved  in  patient  silhouettes,  urged  on  by 
his  wailing  cries.  Something  glistened  on  the  fence 
not  far  from  her.  She  looked  at  it  more  closely,  and 
saw  that  it  was  a^ead  black-snake  trailed  limply  over 
the  top  rail.  Some  negro  had  put  it  there  as  a  sure 
charm  for  the  long-needed  rain.  Barbara  smiled  sadly 
and  shook  her  head,  as  she  thought  of  poor  monkeys 
crucified  by  the  Hill  tribes  of  India  for  the  same  pur 
pose  as  that  which  had  prompted  this  Yirginian 


BARBARA   D BRING.  221 

darky  to  kill  a  snake  and  hang  it  on  the  fence  which 
bore  its  name. 

But  now  the  sky  began  to  pulse  with  a  faint  rose 
hue,  the  call  of  nestward  birds  trembled  overhead, — 
there  was  that  faint,  unmistakable  stirring  through 
wood  and  field  which  is  nature's  preparation  for  the 
calm  of  night.  Barbara  wished  to  see  the  sun  set 
from  the  broom-grown  hill  which  overlooked  her  own 
well-loved  valley.  Something  in  the  unfamiliarity  of 
this  vast  beauty  made  her  sorrowful.  She  turned  and 
trudged  quickly  over  the  slippery  snow-clogged  roads, 
until  she  was  once  more  in  the  field  of  broom,  with 
only  the  great,  undulating  plains  between  her  and  the 
open  sea.  She  called  Eobin,  and  with  her  arm  about 
him  waited  for  that  puissant  change  which  makes  the 
magic  of  the  sky.  Above  spread  a  lustrous  sheet  of 
beryl-colored  air,  seen  through  a  filigree  of  clouds, 
gray,  diaphanous,  tinged  at  their  edges  with  a  warm 
gold.  Underneath,  a  deep-blue  mystery  of  vapor  was 
piled  from  east  to  west,  as  though  in  imitation  of  the 
mountains  from  which  she  had  just  turned  away.  In 
this  a  beamy  opening  sent  forth  suddenly  shafts  of 
light  and  revealed  what  seemed  to  be  an  endless  waste 
of  molten  brass,  its  tunnelled  waves  breaking  in  fiery 
spume  even  above  the  edge  of  the  sombre  wall. 

The  space  of  tremulous  pale  green  above  died  into  a 
dim  saffron.  Little  by  little  the  molten  brass  changed 
into  lead.  The  glowing  door  was  shut.  Upon  the 
level  sadness  of  the  far  east  the  full  moon  balanced 
like  a  plaque  of  silver.  A  star  gleamed  here  and  there 
with  vacillations  of  green,  of  red,  of  orange.  Now  a 
white  steam  rolled  upward  with  the  calm  moon  on  its 
breast.  Again  came  the  sensation  of  being  on  the 
prow  of  a  great  ship.  The  ship  was  the  world.  It 

19* 


222  BARBARA  DERING. 

seemed  sailing  steadfastly  through  those  volumes  of 
cool  mist.  The  darkness  began  to  gather  with  its  un 
dulations  of  gloom,  of  unfamiliar  sound,  of  penetrating 
odors.  The  eerie  trilling  of  an  owl  fell  through  the 
thickening  air,  and  once  more  the  baying  of  the  hounds 
came  faintly  from  the  valley.  Suddenly  the  terror  of 
vast  and  spacious  darkness  clutched  at  Barbara's  heart. 
She  started  to  her  feet  and  gazed  about  her.  The 
trees  no  longer  seemed  friendly,  but  their  dark  tracery 
against  the  sky  was  a  wizard-writing  full  of  evil. 
Those  surges  of  wan  vapor  seemed  in  her  wild  thought 
like  a  condensation  of  ghosts,  and  the  owl's  cry  shiv 
ered  along  her  overstrained  nerves  in  a  sinister  warn 
ing.  Holding  Eobin  convulsively  by  the  collar,  sho 
started  down  the  steep  path. 

"Ah,  my  God!"  she  said  aloud,  after  a  while,  pant 
ing  for  breath,  "  I  am  so  lonely !  I  have  tried  so 
hard !  He  will  be  harsh  and  stern  to  me,  when  I  come 
in.  I  have  only  my  child.  Show  me  my  duty  to  her. 
I  cannot  leave  her,  even  if  it  makes  him  angry  with 
me  forever.  Let  me  teach  her  to  be  a  wiser,  calmer, 
happier  woman  than  I  have  ever  been." 

The  moon  bloomed  suddenly  into  full  splendor,  and 
the  fine  tracery  of  the  cedar  tassels  was  thrown  upon 
the  snow.  That  convulsive  spasm  of  dread  released 
her,  and  a  strong  sense  of  the  beneficence  of  nature 
distilled  itself  again  through  her  whole  being.  She 
walked  rapidly,  but  calmly,  trying  not  to  think,  but  to 
absorb  strength  for  the  coming  struggle.  Once  she 
stopped.  It  was  to  lift  the  rough  wooden  door  of  a 
hare-trap  and  let  scamper  the  frightened  creature 
within,  but  she  left  in  its  place  one  of  those  loose  coins 
which  she  always  carried  with  her  on  all  her  rambles. 
Somehow  the  thought  of  the  hare  which  she  had 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  223 

restored  to  liberty  cheered  all  her  mood.  She  had 
learned  to  regard  freedom  as  so  infinite  a  compensa 
tion  for  most  ills,  that,  to  her,  even  the  bondage  of  a 
hare  seemed  not  without  consequence  in  the  general 
scheme  of  existence. 


XXVIII. 

DURING  the  next  two  or  three  days  Fair  seemed  to 
be  so  much  better  that  Barbara  was  very  puzzled  as 
to  what  course  to  take  in  regard  to  the  matter  of  going 
West  with  the  Lelands.  She  felt  that  Bering  would 
have  a  right  to  be  angry  with  her,  if,  from  a  vague 
anxiety,  she  allowed  him  to  set  off  alone  when  Eunice 
would  so  gladly  take  charge  of  Fair. 

The  next  night,  while  lying  awake,  in  the  vain 
endeavor  to  decide  upon  what  to  do,  a  sudden  thought 
took  possession  of  her,  and,  jumping  out  of  bed,  she 
threw  on  her  dressing-gown,  lighted  a  candle,  and 
wrote  the  following  letter  to  Bishop  Cammersell : 

"Mr  DEAR  BISHOP, — You  told  me  so  often  during 
your  visit  to  Eunice,  last  month,  that  you  wished  me 
to  come  to  you  in  any  trouble,  that  I  am  writing  to 
you  now  for  counsel.  Indeed,  dear  bishop,  I  am  so 
bewildered  and  unhappy  that  I  cannot  see  clearly  and 
am  utterly  confused  about  my  real  duty.  My  little 
girl  has  been  seriously  ill  with  diphtheritic  sore-throat, 
and  the  doctor  tells  me  that  she  is  liable  to  other 
attacks  all  during  the  winter. 

"  Now,  my  husband  is  very  anxious  for  me  to  go 
West  with  him  on  a  pleasure-party  arranged  by  some 


224  BARBARA  DERING. 

friends,  and,  of  course,  I  wish  to  do  this  if  possible, 
especially  as  several  things  have  occurred  which  may 
make  it  a  serious  question,  and  involve  much  unhappi- 
ness  for  us  both,  in  the  future,  if  I  am  forced  to  refuse 
him.  But  I  cannot  bear  to  leave  Fairfax,  even  in  the 
charge  of  Eunice,  because  I  feel  that  if  anything 
should  happen  to  her  I  could  never  get  over  it.  Be 
sides,  I  suppose  that  a  mother  always  feels  that  she 
can  do  for  her  child  what  no  one  else  in  the  world  can. 
If,  however,  you  tell  me  that  this  is  merely  a  mother's 
over-anxiousness,  and  that  the  sensible  and  right  thing 
is  to  go  with  my  husband,  I  will  do  as  you  say.  I 
feel  that  I  am  incapable  of  judging  impartially  in  this 
matter  and  that  Eunice,  being  herself  a  very  nervous 
mother,  could  not  help  me.  It  is  for  this  that  I  turn 
to  you,  dear  bishop,  for  you  have  had  children  your 
self,  and  must  often  have  felt  as  harassed  as  I  feel  now. 
I  wish  only  to  be  shown  my  duty.  When  I  see  it  I 
will  do  it,  no  matter  what  it  costs  me.  Thanking  you 
beforehand,  dear  bishop,  for  what  I  know  will  be  your 
wise  and  helpful  answer, 

"  I  remain  always, 

"  Yours  most  sincerely, 

"  BARBARA  DERING." 

For  seven  days  Barbara  examined  eagerly  each  post 
that  came  to  Rosemary  in  search  of  Bishop  Cammer- 
sell's  reply,  but  in  vain.  On  the  eighth  morning  she 
rode  Wilful  over  to  The  Poplars  and  asked  Eunice 
what  she  thought  of  his  silence.  They  decided  that  he 
could  not  have  received  the  letter,  and  Barbara  was 
forced  to  rely  on  her  own  judgment.  As  Fair  was 
again  feverish  on  Monday,  she  told  Bering  finally  that 
she  could  not  go,  and  on  Tuesday  he  knocked  at  her 


BARBARA   BERING.  225 

bedroom  door  and  gave  her  a  cool  touch  on  her  cheek 
for  good-by.  She  ran  after  him. 

"  Oh,  Jock !  don't  let  us  part  like  this !  We  can 
never  tell  what  may  happen !  Won't  you  say  you  un 
derstand  how  I  feel, — that  you  know  I  would  go  with 
you  if  I  could  ?" 

"  I  don't  perceive  any  shackles  about  you,  now  that  I 
examine  you  attentively,"  said  Bering.  "  You  aren't 
rooted  to  the  ground,  as  they  say  in  books,  are  you?" 
He  laughed  and  lighted  a  cigar.  Still  the  woman  in 
Barbara  whispered  foreboding  and  she  clung  to  his 
arm. 

"Oh,  won't  you  give  me  a  loving  kiss,  dear?"  she 
pleaded,  her  eyes  wet.  "  Dear,  you  must  know  how  I 
love  you.  If  anything  happened  to  me,  you  would 
suffer  so." 

" '  Her  majesty  myself  to  the  last,  eh  ?"  he  said. 

Stung  to  the  quick  she  loosed  his  arm,  and  Dering, 
blowing  her  a  mocking  kiss  from  his  finger-tips,  ran 
down-stairs. 

As  days  went  by  and  still  nothing  was  heard  from 
Bishop  Cammersell,  Eunice,  who  happened  to  be  in 
Ashleigh,  called  on  the  bishop.  He  was  just  going 
out,  but  took  off  his  hat  and  cloak  and  carried  her 
back  to  his  study,  where  a  fire  of  sea-coal  shimmered 
in  an  open  grate.  One  of  his  nine  daughters,  a  slim, 
fashionably-dressed  young  woman,  with  a  great  deal 
of  flaxen  hair  and  her  father's  silky  blue  eyes,  came  in 
and  brought  Eunice  a  cup  of  tea,  then,  with  a  few 
pretty  words  of  excuse,  left  them  alone. 

"  Bishop,"  said  Eunice,  with  her  usual  quiet  frank 
ness,  going  at  once  to  the  point,  "  I  want  to  ask  you 
about  a  letter  that  Barbara  Dering  wrote  you  two 
weeks  ago.  It  was  a  very  important  letter,  and  she 
P 


226  BARBARA  BERING. 

looked  for  your  answer  with  a  great  deal  of  anxiety. 
Did  you  ever  receive  it  ?" 

The  bishop  stroked  his  mildly-retreating  chin,  and 
giving  his  gentle  smile,  answered,  in  an  explanatory 
tone, — 

"  Well,  you  see,  my  dear  child,  it  is  a  very  delicate 
and  even  a  dangerous  matter  to  answer  such  letters. 
I  do  not  believe  in  interfering  between  husband  and 
wife,  my  child.  They  have  accepted  each  other  for 
better  for  worse.  Such  questions  are  always  very 
painful  and  embarrassing." 

Eunice  sat  looking  at  him  calmly  with  her  steadfast 
eyes,  but  her  color  deepened.  "  Then  you  did  receive 
the  letter?"  was  all  that  she  said,  when  the  bishop 
stopped  speaking.  He  looked  confused  and  rather  un 
comfortable,  but  again  smiled  benevolently. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  did  receive  your  friend's  letter,  but 
I  did  not  think  it  wise  to  answer  it.  A  wife  should 
decide  such  questions  for  herself.  Mr.  Bering  would 
have  every  right  to  be  angry  with  me  if  I  had  meddled 
in  his  private  affairs." 

Eunice  was  silent,  smoothing  and  buttoning  her 
little  gray  suede  glove.  The  bishop  continued  with  re 
stored  suavity,  being  accustomed  to  take  silence  for 
consent, — 

"  You  see,  my  dear  child,  it  is  on  these  impulsive  and 
excitable  natures  that  the  discipline  of  marriage  has 
the  most  beneficial  influence.  Your  friend  will  be  a 
much  better,  wiser,  more  resigned  and  Christian  woman 
for  being  left  to  settle  such  questions  for  herself,  with 
the  aid  of  earnest  prayer ;  and  pardon  me  for  wounding 
you,  my  dear  child,  but  I  have  been  intending  to  speak 
to  you  on  this  subject  ever  since  my  visit  to  you  in  the 
early  autumn.  I  am  sure,  from  careful  observation, 


BARBARA  DERING.  227 

my  dear,  that  you  indulge  and  subordinate  yourself  too 
much  to  your  friend.  True,  she  is  very  winning  and 
delightful,  but  strangely  erring  and  misguided  in  many 
ways.  Besides,  you  have  your  own  gifts  to  cultivate. 
Many  people  have  told  me  of  your  very  lovely  voice. 
We  should  not  neglect  the  talents  that  a  Gracious 
Father  has  seen  fit  to  bestow  upon  us,  my  dear.  How 
sweet  it  would  be  if  you  could  train  and  lead  a  fine 
choir  in  that  pretty  Gothic  church  which  every  one  ad 
mires  !  The  music  which  they  now  have  is  painful 
even  to  my  uncultivated  ears.  Why  not  consecrate 
your  beautiful  voice  to  its  loving  Creator  and  rejoice 
the  hearts  of  the  congregation  ?  Let  your  friend  rely 
more  upon  her  own  strength, — your  duty  is  to  your 
self,  your  husband,  your  children,  and  your  own  gifts. 
Do  not  spend  so  much  of  your  precious  time  with  her. 
Remember  that  we  must  each  work  out  our  salvation 
with  fear  and  trembling."  He  paused,  his  placid  lips 
wreathed  by  his  most  engaging  smile,  his  tremulous 
blue  eyes  fixed  yearningly  upon  her.  But  Eunice,  her 
face  pale  and  chill,  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  looking 
at  him,  without  making  any  movement  to  meet  his  out 
stretched  hands.  Then  she  said,  slowly,  deliberately, — 

"  Bishop,  I  have  only  one  question  to  ask  you.  Do 
you  think  that  if  our  Lord  had  been  upon  earth,  and 
received  such  a  letter  as  Barbara  wrote  you,  he  would 
have  left  it  unanswered  ?" 

The  bishop's  rosy  cheeks  grew  rosier,  and  he 
smoothed  his  chin  after  his  manner  when  slightly  puz 
zled  or  embarrassed. 

"  Er — such  a  letter  would  scarcely  be  addressed  to 
our  Lord,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  finally. 

"Such  prayers  are  often  addressed  to  Him,"  said 
Eunice,  coldly.  "  And  we  are  taught  that  no  prayer 


228  BARBARA  DERING. 

remains  unanswered,  whether  as  we  would  have  it  or 
otherwise.  No  matter  if  your  answer  had  been  harsh 
and  uncomprehending,  it  would  have  been  better  than 
none.  You  are  a  Father  of  our  Church,  bishop.  Do 
you  think  in  your  inmost  heart  that  you  have  treated 
Barbara  Dering  as  a  father  would  treat  a  cherished 
daughter? — as  Christ  would  have  treated  her?  The 
reasons  that  you  have  given  me  would  be  cold-hearted 
in  a  layman,  how  much  more  in  a  high-priest  of  God ! 
I  must  bid  you  good-by,  bishop.  I  dare  not  say  to 
you  what  is  in  my  heart."  With  a  quick  movement 
she  left  the  room,  and  a  few  moments  later  found  her 
self  walking  rapidly  down  the  broad  village  street, 
without  knowing  in  what  direction.  Eunice's  nature 
was  naturally  orthodox  and  easily  guided,  but  the  dia 
logue  in  which  she  had  just  taken  part  caused  in  her  a 
strong  reaction.  She  recalled  the  words  which  speak 
of  there  being  One  only  Mediator  between  God  and 
man,  the  man  Christ  Jesus,  and  regretted,  in  her  sudden 
revulsion  of  ideas,  that  it  was  considered  necessary  to 
approach  Him  through  the  medium  of  bishops,  priests, 
and  deacons.  How  much  sweeter  it  was  to  speak  to 
Him  directly,  looking  up  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky ! 
How  much  more  solemn  sounded  the  still,  small  voice 
now  whispering  in  her  heart  than  the  unctuous  tones 
of  Bishop  Cammersell !  How  much  easier  it  was  to  ap 
proach  Him  in  spirit,  than  bodily  through  the  conven 
tional  means  of  weekly  church-going !  She  walked  on 
faster  and  faster,  until  at  last  arrested  by  the  bright 
face  of  a  little  girl,  who  was  leaning  against  a  gate 
arranging  her  school-books  more  satisfactorily  under 
her  arm. 

"  Who  lives  here,  dear  ?"  asked  Eunice,  more  for  want 
of  something  to  say  than  from  any  real  desire  to  know. 


BARBARA  DERINO.  229 

"Oh,  don't  you  know?"  exclaimed  the  child,  start 
ing  away  from  the  gate  and  looking  frightened.  "I 
thought  ev'ybody  in  Ashleigh  knew  that!  It's  the 
black-eyed  minister's  house !" 

This  mysterious  announcement  only  made  Eunice 
laugh  gently.  The  child  looked  up  at  her,  also 
smiling. 

"  And  who  is  the  black-eyed  minister  ?" 

"  Oh,  he's  a  good  man,  they  say,  but  dreadful  cross 
an'  hard.  He  thinks  God's  always  mad  with  ev'ybody. 
An'  his  church  is  so  bare  an'  cold  all  the  old  ladies  get 
rheumatism,  but  they  go,  'cause  when  folks  do  love  the 
black-eyed  minister  they  love  him  real  hard.  But 
mother'n'  me  we  love  Bishop  Cammersell  I  He's  jes' 
like  the  Lord  Jesus  in  the  picture,  an'  his  smile  is  jes' 
lovely !  An'  when  he  says,  l  Suffer  the  little  children 
to  come  unto  me,'  after  Sunday-school,  all  the  gyrls 
cry.  An'  one  day  he  said  that  about  a  '  cup  of  cold 
water  in  the  name  of  the  Lord'  when'  I  took  him  a 
gourdful  from  our  spring,  an'  I  couldn't  help  cryin' 
myself.  Ev'ybody's  jes'  wild  'bout  him.  An'  oh,  he's 
got  such  beautiful  white  curls,  an'  his  daughters  do 
dress  so  stylish !  Mother  says  they  get  their  clothes 
from  New  York.  An'  he's  always  preachin'  'bout 
heaven ;  but  the  black-eyed  minister  he  preaches  most 
'bout  hell."  She  stopped,  out  of  breath,  her  chubby 
face  glowing,  the  red  tape  which  fastened  her  slate- 
pencil  to  her  slate  wrapped  so  tightly  about  her  fore 
finger  that  the  flesh  between  its  cross-work  was  of  a 
yellow-white. 

A  sudden  idea  took  possession  of  Eunice.  Kissing 
her  informant,  much  to  that  small  creature's  surprise, 
she  opened  the  gate  and  went  up  the  narrow  brick 
walk  to  the  black-eyed  minister's  house. 

20 


230  BARBARA  BERING. 

It  was  a  large  stuccoed  building  with  a  square  porch 
supported  on  four  brick  piles.  Over  one  end  of  this 
porch  a  bare  honeysuckle-vine  swayed  about  in  the 
winter  air.  Two  green  tubs,  on  either  side  of  the 
wooden  steps,  held  stunted  cactus  plants.  She  could 
see  behind  the  shining  window-panes  dark-red  curtains 
parted  as  primly  as  the  hair  in  an  old-fashioned  por 
trait.  There  was  no  door-bell  or  knocker,  so  opening 
the  green  Venetian  blinds  which  protected  the  front 
door,  she  rapped  against  its  panels  with  the  handle  of 
her  umbrella.  A  round-faced  colored  girl  in  a  checked 
blue  cotton  gown  and  a  big  white  cap  answered  the 
knock,  and  said  her  master  was  at  home. 

Eunice  sat  down  on  a  horse-hair  sofa  in  the  sitting- 
room  and  looked  about  her.  The  whitewashed  walls 
bore  the  marks  of  the  brush,  and  there  were  family 
photographs  in  oval,  mahogany  frames  hung  at  regu 
lar  distances  over  the  mantel-piece.  Three  chairs,  also 
covered  with  black  horse-hair,  were  ranged  against  the 
walls.  There  was  a  marble-topped  table,  on  which 
rested  a  handsome  old  edition  of  "  Pilgrim's  Progress," 
a  large  Bible  bound  in  calf,  and  a  calendar  set  in  ebony. 
A  rectangular  bronze  clock  ticked  hoarsely  in  the 
centre  of  the  mantel-shelf,  and  on  either  side  of  it 
was  a  tall  bronze  candlestick  from  which  rose  a  tallow 
candle. 

The  room  was  very  cold  and  Eunice  did  not  unfasten 
her  jacket,  but  sat  with  her  hands  in  her  muff,  trying 
to  imagine  the  black-eyed  minister's  outward  appear 
ance  by  studying  the  photographs  in  the  mahogany 
frames. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  an  immense  man  ap 
peared  on  the  threshold,  fixing  on  her  his  sunken,  but 
piercing  eyes.  On  his  gaunt  frame  hung  a  suit  of 


BARBARA  DERING.  231 

rusty  black,  his  dark  hair,  short  and  straggling,  showed 
a  gray  thread  here  and  there.  His  clean-shaven  face 
was  crossed  by  haggard  lines.  His  lips  were  but  a 
firm  line  above  his  massive  chin.  The  contrast  of  his 
appearance  to  that  of  Bishop  Cammersell  was  as 
striking  as  though  a  pennon  of  black  crape  were  to  be 
set  floating  from  an  iron  stanchion  against  a  rosy  apple- 
tree.  He  coughed  before  speaking,  and  then  said, — 

"  My  servant  did  not  mention  your  name,  madam." 

"  I  am  Eunice  Bransby, — Mrs.  Godfrey  Bransby,"  said 
Eunice,  a  little  nervously.  "  I  do  not  even  know  your 
name,  sir.  I  have  a  friend  who  is  in  great  need  of 
advice,  and  I  was  told  that  a  minister  lived  here.  I 
hope  that  you  won't  think  I  took  a  liberty." 

He  made  no  direct  answer  to  this  appeal,  but  said,  in 
his  bell-like  voice, — 

"My  name  is  George  Macfarlane,  and  I  am  an 
Episcopal  minister.  Tell  me  to  what  denomination 
you  belong,  madam." 

"  I  am  an  Episcopalian,"  replied  Eunice,  shyly,  be 
ginning  to  understand  why  people  preferred  dapper 
Bishop  Cammersell  to  this  iron-visaged  priest.  His 
face  relaxed  somewhat,  and  he  said, — 

"  Come  to  my  study.  We  can  speak  more  privately 
there,  and  I  will  have  a  fire  lighted." 

Eunice  followed  him  over  the  worn  oilcloth  of  the 
narrow  hall,  and  opening  a  door  to  the  left  he  showed 
her  into  his  study,  then  called  the  negro  girl,  who 
lighted  two  or  three  shavings  of  pine-wood  under  a 
lump  of  coal  and  left  them  to  their  fate,  without  the 
aid  of  a  blower. 

The  contrast  between  the  bishop's  study  and  that  of 
Mr.  Macfarlane  was  as  complete  as  that  of  their  per 
sonalities.  The  former  room,  thickly  curtained  and 


232  BARBARA  DERING. 

carpeted,  had  walls  hung  in  embossed  leather,  a  luxuri 
ous  carved  writing-table,  lounging-chairs  deeply  cush 
ioned,  sofas,  footstools,  bookcases  lined  with  every 
volume  that  could  edify  or  instruct  an  Episcopal  prel 
ate's  mind.  Here  there  were  several  stiff-backed 
wooden  seats,  an  uncushioned  arm-chair  covered  with 
carpeting,  dark-green  shades  on  rollers,  an  old  oak 
table,  and  a  pine  bookcase  not  more  than  half  filled 
with  volumes,  whose  dingy  covers  showed  that  they 
had  been  long  in  their  owner's  possessions.  Over  the 
mantel-piece  hung  a  map  of  the  Holy  Land,  and  rest 
ing  against  the  wall,  just  beneath  it7  was  a  crayon 
drawing  of  an  old  lady,  who  looked  like  Mr.  Macfar- 
lane,  in  a  widow's  dress  and  cap. 

Eunice  could  not  help  smiling,  as  she  glanced  up  at 
it,  but,  seeing  that  he  regarded  her  gravely,  reassumed 
a  serious  expression. 

"  Now,  madam,"  he  said,  placing  one  of  the  wooden 
chairs  for  her  and  taking  another  himself.  "  If  you 
will  tell  me  your  friend's  trouble  I  will  try  to  advise 
her ;  but  first  I  should  like  to  know  why  she  did  not 
come  herself.  Is  she  ill  ?" 

"  She  does  not  know  that  I  intended  seeing  any  one 
for  her  to-day,"  answered  Eunice ;  "  but  she  wrote 
to — to  another  minister,  who  never  answered  her 
letter." 

"  Bid  he  receive  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Macfarlane. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  was  it  a  letter  asking  for  advice  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"A  respectful  letter?" 

"It  was  a  noble,  simple,  touching  letter,  sir,"  said 
Eunice,  earnestly.  "  I  read  it  before  my  friend  posted 
it.  In  it  she  asked  as  humbly  aa  a  child  to  be  shown 


BARBARA  BERING.  233 

her  duty.  She  said  that  when  she  knew  what  it  was 
she  would  do  it,  no  matter  at  what  cost  to  herself." 
"And  you  are  sure  that  it  was  received?" 
"  Perfectly  sure.  I  went  myself  to  see  the  person 
to  whom  it  was  written,  and  the  only  reasons  he  gave 
for  not  answering  it  were  that  it  was  a  very  delicate 
and  dangerous  matter  to  interfere  between  husband 
and  wife,  and  that,  had  he  done  so,  my  friend's  hus 
band  would  had  just  cause  to  be  angry  with  him.  He 
also  said  that  wives  ought  to  know  how  to  decide  such 
questions  for  themselves." 

Mr.  Macfarlane's  face  grew  sterner  and  sterner,  but 
when  she  finished  speaking,  all  that  he  said  was, — 
"  And  now  tell  me  the  cause  of  your  friend's  trouble." 
Eunice  told  him  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  and 
when  she  finished  he  looked  at  her  with  eyes  softened 
by  a  great  kindliness. 

"You  may  tell  your  friend  for  me,"  he  then  said, 
"  that  I  am  glad  in  these  days  of  careless  motherhood 
to  hear  of  a  young  woman  who,  in  spite  of  such  pain 
ful  obstacles,  sees  her  duty  so  clearly  and  performs  it 
so  bravely.  It  would  indeed  be  better  for  a  mother 
to  have  a  millstone  hanged  about  her  neck  and  to  be 
drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea  than  to  offend  a 
little  one  whom  God  has  given  into  her  keeping,  body 
and  soul.  If  your  friend  is  in  further  perplexity  of 
any  sort,  I  hope  that  she  will  come  to  me.  At  least  I 
will  give  her  my  honest  counsel,  without  thinking  of 
the  unpleasant  consequences  which  it  may  bring  upon 
myself.  As  for  you,  madam,  your  love  for  your  friend 
is  very  beautiful,  and  the  feeling  which  exists  between 
you  is  a  holy  and  blessed  thing  which  you  cannot  prize 
too  highly  or  thank  God  for  too  earnestly.  I  hope 
that  this  chance  meeting  may  grow  in  a  fuller  acquaint- 

20* 


234  BARBARA  DERING. 

ance,  madam,  and  I  assure  you  again  of  my  hearty 
approval  of  your  friend's  conduct." 

Eunice  thanked  him  again  and  again,  and  when  they 
parted  at  the  door  he  took  her  hands  in  his  and  said, 
with  deep  gentleness, — 

"I  may  have  seemed  cold  to  you,  my  child.  My 
manner  has  always  been  a  source  of  regret  to  me  ;  but 
you  have  my  blessing.  I  thank  God  that  I  have  been 
of  service  to  you." 

Eunice  looked  up  into  the  dark  eyes  with  a  sensation 
of  tears  behind  her  own.  As  she  went  down  the  rickety 
wooden  steps  she  had  lost  all  sense  of  his  hardness,  and 
could  readily  believe  that  "when  folks  did  love  the 
black-eyed  minister  they  loved  him  real  hard." 


XXIX. 

THREE  weeks  passed  before  Barbara  got  a  letter  from 
Bering,  although  she  had  written  to  him  very  regularly. 
His  words  were  saltless,  largely  scrawled,  and  touched 
only  on  practical  matters.  Barbara  refolded  the  cold, 
thick  sheets  and  put  them  back  into  their  envelope 
with  a  dry  sensation  at  heart  and  eyes.  She  had  not 
yet  reached  what  Carlyle  calls  "  the  centre  of  indiffer 
ence,"  although  she  was  beginning  to  feel  that  its  arid 
calm,  as  of  the  central  point  in  a  cyclone,  might  be  a 
safe  retreat  from  the  turbulences  of  her  present  life. 

After  a  few  moments  spent  quietly  at  one  of  the 
open  windows,  she  ordered  Wilful  and  started  upon  a 
long  ride. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  April,  the  air  mild  as  a 
fairy's  breath,  the  pear  trees  one  flutter  of  white  bios- 


BARBARA  BERING.  235 

som,  the  peach-trees  frailly  rosy,  the  young  leaf-buds 
on  the  maples  and  poplars  making  a  dim  green  dust 
between  her  and  the  distant  horizon.  Yellow  crocus- 
tips  were  just  breaking  the  black  garden-mould  here 
and  there,  and  violets  crowded  damp  and  pungent  under 
their  matted  leaves.  On  the  greening  hill-sides  the 
sheep  moved  lazily,  their  dull-pink  wool,  tinted  by  the 
red  soil,  melting  into  the  general  harmony  about  them. 
The  incessant  bleating  of  the  lambs  was  punctuated  by 
the  sharp  "  tink-tink"  which  came  from  the  bell 
wether's  neck.  A  hundred  different  bird-notes  thrilled 
the  fluctuant  air.  The  singers  whirred  their  gay  wings 
close  to  Barbara's  cheek,  swung  head  down  as  though 
tipsy  with  sunshine  among  the  honeyed  white  of  the 
pear-trees,  alighted  in  Wilful's  haughty  way  and  were 
off  again  before  he  could  send  a  purring  breath  of  in 
quiry  through  his  dilated  nostrils.  Butterflies  clear  as 
amber  and  smoother  than  satin  tilted  past  on  the  placid 
breeze.  The  spongy  soil  gave  forth  a  delightful  per 
fume,  as  of  the  quintessence  of  spring.  The  noise  of 
distant  brooks  came  tremulously  to  the  ear.  Under 
foot  was  a  dark  tangle  of  periwinkle  in  which,  here 
and  there,  a  pale  blue  flower-star  glimmered  or  a  toad 
stool  perked  its  fat,  white  stem,  on  which  sat  the 
round  umbrella-like  top,  as  daintily  browned  as  a  well- 
made  meringue.  In  this  part  cf  the  lawn  white  pines 
grew  thickly,  and  the  earth  was  dank  and  rich.  Wild 
vines  covered  the  tree-stems  and  rioted  along  the 
ground,  in  friendly  interlacings  with  the  glistening  peri 
winkle  trails.  Wild  strawberries  were  here  in  bloom, 
and  here  in  the  scraggy  branches  of  lopped  cedars 
which  had  died  from  age,  one  could  see  the  soft  round 
of  nests  and  the  glint  of  faintly-colored  eggs. 

When  Wilful  had  jumped  the  octagon,  moss-crusted 


236  BARBARA  DERINQ. 

rails  of  the  old  fence  which  girdled  the  grounds,  they 
broke  at  once,  from  the  twilight  of  thick  evergreens, 
into  the  full  splendor  of  the  day.  There  was  a  wash 
of  lucent  gold  from  east  to  west.  A  veil  of  transparent 
yet  throbbing  glory  seemed  lowered  between  Barbara's 
eyes  and  the  wide  valley  about  her.  Beyond  was  the 
pale-green  shimmer  of  young  oats,  undulations  of  deep- 
red  soil  breaking  the  tender  monotony,  tufty  woods, 
their  shadows  softened  by  a  vapory  azure,  thin  crests 
of  tall  stone-pines  glowing  dark  and  bright  as  splendid 
emeralds.  The  red-bud  trees  made  globes  of  dusky 
color  far  away,  symmetrical  and  fragile-looking  as 
though  they  had  been  dandelion-balls  dyed  crimson. 
The  sky  was  a  hood  of  harebell-tinted  silk  trimmed 
lace-like  with  pale  clouds. 

Barbara  rode  on  and  on,  breathing  deep  of  the  gen 
erous  air,  and  feeling  with  a  healthful  pleasure  the 
elastic  movements  of  her  horse.  She  was  in  perfect 
accord  with  the  fertile  beauty  of  the  day  and  season, 
and  her  own  glowing  loveliness  struck  no  note  of 
contrast,  but  was  rather  an  accentuation  of  the  vivid 
wonders  about  her.  She  came  finally  to  a  branching 
road  which  ran  southward  through  a  belt  of  timber 
towards  what  was  called  "the  flat  woods."  And 
while  she  hesitated,  Wilful,  as  though  deciding  for  her, 
wheeled  suddenly  and  began  to  gallop  along  this  level 
way.  At  first  she  frowned  and  tried  to  turn  him,  but, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  mood,  urged  him  on  ;  and 
so  they  galloped,  for  a  long  while,  through  the  spring 
forest,  which  was  softly  green  overhead  and  fragrant 
with  the  breath  of  wild  azaleas.  At  length  the  railway 
was  crossed,  and  they  were  well  on  their  way  to  the 
different  country  which  lay  beyond  the  flat  woods. 
Between  Barbara's  brows  was  the  little  crease  which, 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  237 

with  her,  always  meant  determination.  After  they 
had  gone  about  eight  miles  she  drew  up,  beside  a 
broad  willow-edged  stream  and  let  Wilful  pick  his  way 
carefully  down  the  bank  and  thrust  his  muzzle  deep 
into  the  lazy  water.  As  he  drank,  a  little  flotilla  of 
white  geese  sailed  gently  up  across  the  silver  reflec 
tions  of  the  willows,  out-dazzling  the  radiant  clouds 
above.  Their  deep-orange  bills  seemed  almost  like 
flames  darting  from  their  sleek  heads,  and  on  this  fiery 
yellow  the  small  nostrils  looked  like  specks  of  jet.  A 
bird  shook  the  willow-branch  near  her  with  its  swift 
alighting  and  began  its  cheery  call.  As  a  child,  Bar 
bara  had  fancied  that  it  said,  "  We  greet  you !  We 
greet  you!  We  greet  you!  Now!  Now!  Now! 
Now !" 

She  looked  up  in  time  to  see  its  glistening  breast  and 
delicate  claws  before  it  flew  oif  glittering  like  a  bit  of 
spun  glass  in  the  fresh  glare,  then  Wilful,  having  sighed 
deeply,  in  token  that  he  was  content  and  ready  to  start, 
they  went  on  along  the  now  level  roads. 

A  half-hour  more  of  trotting  and  cantering,  varied 
by  a  steady  walk  now  and  then,  brought  them  to  a 
huge  old  gate  of  wrought-iron,  swung  between  granite 
posts,  on  the  balls  of  which  clung  falcons  with  their 
wings  spread.  A  tumble-down  stone  wall,  held  from 
utter  dilapidation  in  many  places  by  the  strong  bands 
of  the  Virginia-creeper,  ran  from  this  gate  to  right 
and  left  until  hidden  by  hedges  of  mock-orange.  Bar 
bara  opened  the  heavy  gate  with  her  riding-crop  as 
though  accustomed  to  its  eccentricities,  for  she  was 
careful  to  hold  the  handle  of  her  whip  against  it  until 
Wilful  was  well  through,  when  it  clanged  to  again,  as 
though  with  a  spring. 

The  road  was  no  longer  red,  but  of  a  gray-white, 


238  BARBARA  BERING. 

and  wound  along  between  gently-curving  fields,  downy 
with  young  grass  and  sometimes  dignified  by  ah  im 
mense  oak,  on  whose  gnarled  branches  the  tender 
leaves  had  an  inappropriate  and  frivolous  look,  some 
times  varied  by  the  tall  streak  of  a  Lombardy  poplar 
like  a  Titanic  exclamation  point  against  the  blond  sky. 
A  long  avenue  of  Norway  spruces  made  a  dark  tunnel 
through  the  brilliant  wall  of  the  day,  and  under  these 
Barbara  guided  Wilful.  These  trees  were  very  old  and 
grew  in  fantastic  shapes.  One  was  like  a  vast  lyre, 
another  was  twisted  into  a  huge  S,  another  resembled 
the  zigzag  of  the  conventional  thunderbolts  grasped 
by  Zeus  in  a  child's  mythology.  Their  young  cones, 
oozing  with  sap,  hung  brightly  green  among  the 
sombre  tassels.  Wilful's  hoofs  struck  noiselessly  upon 
the  matting  of  brown  tags,  or  crunched  upon  the  dry 
resin-tipped  cones  of  last  year's  growth.  A  warm, 
thrilling  odor  enfolded  her,  and,  through  the  openings 
in  the  dark  boughs,  little  slits  of  sunlit  grass  beyond, 
shone  with  a  jewelled  brightness. 

At  the  end  of  this  avenue  there  was  a  gate,  which 
opened  upon  a  field  of  wheat,  and  in  the  centre  of  this 
field  a  white  oblong  gleamed  through  a  railing  of 
iron. 

When  Barbara  reached  the  gate  she  slipped  down, 
tied  Wilful  to  one  of  its  posts,  and,  passing  through, 
closed  it  as  gently  as  though  she  were  entering  the 
room  of  a  sleeping  child.  With  her  habit  gathered 
under  one  arm  and  her  eyes  bent  gravely  on  the 
narrow  path,  she  walked  on  towards  the  white  stone. 
A  young  larch-tree  grew  near  the  iron  railing,  and  as 
she  reached  it  she  saw  that  some  one  was  standing  on 
the  other  side,  for  a  white  gown  showed  through  the 
fringe  of  foliage.  This  figure  was  slight  and  small, 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  239 

and  leaned  with  one  cheek  against  the  hand  which 
grasped  the  rusty  iron  above  its  head.  The  other 
hand  held  a  basket  of  white  and  blue  violets.  Be 
yond  was  a  foam  of  young  pear-trees, — the  grass  of 
the  enclosure  was  freaked  with  their  blown  petals. 

"Kitty?"  said  Barbara,  whispering,  and  with  a  cer 
tain  questioning  inflection  as  though  doubtful  of  her 
welcome. 

The  girl  turned  with  a  violent  start,  her  face  pale, 
her  eyes  wide.  They  looked  at  each  other  a  moment 
in  silence.  Then  Barbara  made  an  impetuous  move 
ment  and  caught  the  other  to  her  breast,  kissing  her, 
at  the  same  time,  on  the  cheeks,  hair,  and  forehead. 

"  Forgive  me,  Kitty,"  she  said,  at  last.  "  You  used 
to  love  me." 

"  I  have  never  stopped  loving  you,"  murmured  the 
girl,  faintly.  She  was  trembling,  and  her  basket  of 
violets  lay  overturned  at  her  feet.  "But  why — 
why "  She  broke  off  and  stood  devouring  Bar 
bara's  face  with  her  large  eyes,  which,  although  of 
a  soft  blue,  were  strangely  like  Bering's. 

"  Why  have  you  come  here  ?"  she  went  on,  abruptly. 
<;  Are  you  happy  ?" 

"  No,  dear,"  said  Barbara,  quietly.  "  But  I  thought 
you  were  in  Normandy  still  at  school,  Kitty.  I 
thought  no  one  was  here  but  the  old  servants." 

"  No.  I  came  last  week.  Aunt  Miriam  is  with  me." 
Then  she  added,  timidly,  "  I  will  go  away,  Barbara, 
and — and  come  back — afterwards,  if  you  wish." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Kitty,"  answered  Barbara,  in  the 
same  still  voice.  "  That  will  be  very  sweet  of  you." 

"  And  the  violets, — I  should  love  you  to  have  them," 
suggested  Kitty,  shyly.  But  Barbara  shook  her 
head, — 


240  BARBARA  D BRING. 

"  No,  dear,  that  is  your  own  offering.  Those  lovely 
pear-blossoms  are  all  that  I  could  wish.  But  thank 
you,  darling, — thank  you,  darling  Kitty." 

The  girl  threw  herself  upon  Barbara's  breast  with  a 
sudden  movement. 

"  Oh,  Barbara,"  she  cried,  "  you  love  him  best  I 
You  love  him  best !  I  have  known  it  always.  I  was 
only  a  little  thing,  but  I  knew  you  couldn't  love 
another  time  as  you  loved  him.  Tell  me  it's  true, 
Barbara !  Tell  me !  tell  me  1" 

"  It's  true,  sweetheart,"  said  Barbara,  her  lips  white. 

"Oh,  thank  God!"  cried  the  girl  "Thank  God! 
But  how  sad!  I  am  very  cruel.  You  must  be  so 
miserable,  Barbara." 

"Not  always,"  answered  Barbara,  gently.  "There 
are  different  ways  of  loving,  dear  child." 

"And  you  love  this  one  a  different  way?"  asked 
Kitty,  a  tinge  of  jealousy  sharpening  her  voice. 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  You  do  love  him,  then !     Is  he  good  to  you  ?" 

"  He  loves  me  as  he  has  never  loved  any  one  else." 

"  As  you  loved  Yal?" 

"  No ;  men  don't  love  like  that." 

"  Yal  loved  you  like  that.  More  than  that !"  cried 
the  girl,  with  sudden  fierceness.  "He  would  never 
have  married  again.  I've  heard  him  say  so." 

Barbara  was  silent,  her  lips  still  pale. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me !"  cried  Kitty,  with  a  gush  of  tears. 
"  I  have  never  judged  you,  Barbara.  I — I  know  how 
much  he  was  like  Yal.  I  shall  always  love  you.  I 
shall  never  say  anything  to  hurt  you  again." 

Barbara  tried  to  smile  in  sign  of  forgiveness,  but 
her  parted  lips  only  trembled,  and  two  large  tears  ran 
slowly  from  her  lowered  eyelids.  Kitty  kissed  them 


BARBARA  BERING.  241 

away,  with  passionate  murmurs  of  self-reproach,  and 
whispered, — 

"I'll  leave  you  now,  darling.  Stay  as  long  as  you 
wish.  I'll  keep  every  one  away." 

Barbara  nodded,  and,  after  one  more  straining  em 
brace,  Kitty  turned  and  ran  swiftly  along  the  winding 
path  which  led  to  the  avenue  of  spruce-trees. 

When  she  was  out  of  sight  Barbara  gathered  an 
armful  of  the  white  pear-bloom,  and  entering  the  en 
closure,  went  and  kneeled  beside  the  white  stone. 
She  had  taken  off  her  riding-hat,  and  the  April  sun 
shine  lighted  her  hair.  After  a  little  while  she  bent 
down  and  kissed  the  grass  which  covered  Valentine's 
grave.  Then,  turning,  pressed  her  lips  to  the  carved 
letters  of  his  name.  She  left  them  there  so  long  that 
the  cold  marble  grew  warm  beneath  her  touch.  With 
one  hand  she  smoothed  the  long  grass  as  though  it  had 
been  the  coverlet  of  her  child.  An  irrepressible  anguish 
mingled  with  a  solemn  joy  rose  through  her  veins  until 
her  submerged  heart  felt  as  though  it  must  suffocate. 

"  My  darling !  my  darling !  my  darling !"  she  said  over 
and  over.  "  My  own !  my  very  own !  My  first  love !  my 
kind  love !  my  best  love !"  Her  tears  now  fell  so  fast  that 
her  cheeks  were  wet,  as  though  bathed  in  rain.  There 
was  no  sobbing, — only  the  continual  gush,  as  though 
from  the  very  fountain  of  her  soul.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  knelt  there,  in  that  ecstasy  of  exquisite  pain 
and  tenderness,  for  a  long  while.  Then,  as  though  re 
membering  a  forgotten  duty,  she  began  to  lay  the  pear- 
blossoms  very  gently  upon  the  mound  beside  which 
she  knelt,  almost  as  though  she  feared  to  waken  some 
one.  Afterwards  she  put  her  arm  about  the  stone,  and 
leaning  her  cheek  against  it,  was  motionless  again.  She 
felt  no  need  of  explaining  anything,  even  to  her  own 
L  21 


242  BARBARA  DERING. 

heart.  She  had  made  a  sorrowful  mistake,  but  it  was 
only  sorrowful,  not  wilful,  and  she  felt  that  her  "  kind 
love"  would  understand,  as  he  had  always  done.  The 
love  that  she  gave  him,  so  passionately  ethereal  in  its 
lastingness,  immortalized  him  until  he  seemed  to  her 
a  very  presence, — as  real  as  the  sunlight  about  her, 
although  as  intangible.  She  had  needed  the  terrible 
experience  of  her  second  marriage  to  learn  the  lesson 
of  real  love, — that  love  which  is  the  result  of  perfect 
companionship,  of  mutual  reverence,  of  soul-accord  as 
fine  and  perfect  as  that  of  two  instruments  keyed  to 
the  same  pitch,  which  is  as  indescribable  as  perfume,  as 
ineffable  as  the  music  heard  in  dreams;  to  which  passion 
bears  the  relation  of  his  sceptre  to  a  king,  its  color  to  a 
flame ;  which  is  neither  entirely  tenderness  nor  entirely 
fire,  but  that  royal  blending  of  the  two  which  means 
completeness ;  a  feeling  in  which  nature  becomes  divine 
and  divinity  natural ;  which  gives  wings  to  the  heart, 
and  hallows,  by  its  supreme  instinct,  every  subtlest 
detail  of  human  life.  This  love,  unknowing,  she  had 
given  to  Valentine, — still  gave  it  to  him,  chastened  and 
intensified  by  the  anguish  she  had  suffered  since  his 
death.  But  she  had  also  learned  to  put  aside  all  long 
ing  for  supreme  happiness  in  her  present  life.  To  be 
supremely  strong  for  the  happiness  of  others  was  now 
her  heart's  desire.  In  spite  of  all  the  pessimism  and 
scepticism  of  the  age,  there  was  in  her  a  wholesome 
fervor  of  belief  in  the  final  working  together  of  all 
things  for  good,  an  unconquerable  voice  which  spoke 
lowly  in  the  silence  of  her  soul,  and  which  said  '  God 
is  in  me  and  I  in  Him.'  She  had  determined  to  put 
from  her  all  regrets  which  might  weaken  her  power 
for  good  in  the  world  about  her.  Her  love  for  Valen 
tine  must  pass  from  an  unutterable  sorrow  to  a  mighty 


BARBARA   DERING.  243 

consolation, — an  upholding  proof  of  the  possibility  of 
idealness  in  human  love.  That  she  was  capable  of  an 
emotion  so  pure,  so  entirely  apart  from  the  material, 
gave  her  a  sense  of  worthiness  at  once  refreshing  and 
soothing.  She  honored  her  nature,  which  was  at  the 
same  time  so  loyal,  so  courageous,  and  so  wise,  for  she 
knew  that  these  quiet  hours  beside  the  grave  of  her 
first  love  separated  her  life  into  two  parts.  For  the 
last  time  she  yielded  herself  to  these  sorrowful,  sweet 
memories.  For  the  last  time  she  gave  up  her  sou!  to 
him.  When  she  turned  from  that  quiet  place  it  would 
be  to  take  up  her  life  as  it  was  and  to  bear  it  unflinch 
ingly  until  the  end. 

She  knew  that  in  a  different  way,  as  she  had  said  to 
Kitty,  she  loved  Dering,  and  as  she  sat  there  with  her 
cheek  against  the  stone,  she  was  filled  with  a  profound 
determination  to  make  him  happy,  to  help  him  to  de 
velop  what  was  highest  in  his  nature,  to  win  him 
utterly  by  her  unfailing  sympathy  and  patience. 

The  air  was  cooling.  A  level  glimmer  drowsed  over 
the  green  reaches  about  her.  Once  more  she  pressed 
her  lips  to  the  cold  marble,  clasping  it  about  with  her 
warm  arms,  as  though  it  had  been  a  living  thing  and 
could  respond  to  her  passion  of  renunciation,  of  fare 
well,  of  forgetfulness.  Her  thick  hair,  so  easy  to  un 
coil,  fell  down  upon  its  austere  whiteness, — the  hair 
that  he  had  loved!  For  the  first  time  she  sobbed 
heart-brokenly. 


244  BARBARA  DERING. 


XXX. 

IT  was  not  until  the  first  week  of  May  that  Barbara 
received  from  Dering  any  definite  account  of  his  plans. 
She  then  learned,  to  her  intense  surprise,  that  he  had 
sailed  for  Japan  with  another  friend  whom  he  had 
met  in  San  Francisco,  and  that  the  Lelands  had  already 
returned  to  Washington. 

A  sword-pang  went  through  Barbara's  heart.  Was 
she  then  to  lose  even  the  compensation  of  his  love? 
Must  she  bear  her  life  without  the  mere  comfort  of 
feeling  that  she  bore  it  for  one  who  loved  her,  no 
matter  how  harshly?  She  was  bewildered,  and  sat 
looking  at  the  letter  in  her  hand  and  saying,  "  God 
help  me!  God  help  me!"  in  a  dulled  voice.  There 
was  no  higher  human  power  to  whom  she  felt  like 
turning  for  advice.  At  the  thought  of  Bishop  Cam- 
mersell  her  strong  lip  curled.  Mr.  McFarlane  was  a 
high-minded  but  conventional  parson,  whose  ideas  of 
marriage  were  probably  comprised  in  St.  Paul's  pithy 
saying,  "  Wives,  submit  yourselves  unto  your  own  hus 
bands,  as  unto  the  Lord."  Several  hundred  years  divided 
her  from  the  people  who  lived  about  her, — from  their 
creeds  and  customs.  Still,  she  felt  that  she  must  make 
every  effort  to  keep  her  husband  from  drifting  wilfully 
or  unconsciously  into  a  life  of  hard  isolation.  She 
went  and  knelt  down  by  Fair,  who  was  brandishing 
her  pretty  legs  and  tugging  at  the  toes  of  her  gayly- 
colored  socks,  making  little  clucking  sounds  of  replete 
pleasure  the  while. 

"Poor  baby!  what  have  you  got  to  suffer?"  she 
said,  bitterly. 


BARBARA   DERINQ.  245 

Fair  gave  a  gurgling  laugh  for  reply,  and  showed 
her  pink  gums  with  a  supreme  lack  of  vanity.  Her 
great  eyes,  feathered  with  long  lashes,  glared  brilliantly 
up  into  Barbara's  face. 

"  My  eyebrows,  my  hair,  my  forehead, — his  eyes  and 
mouth,"  she  murmured  on.  "  What  is  in  store  for 
you?  Will  you  suffer  most  or  make  others  suffer? 
As  you're  a  woman-child,  poor  mite,  I  suppose  it  is  you 
who'll  have  the  sharpest  pangs." 

"  A-glee !  A-glee !  A-glee !"  was  Fair's  response,  blot 
ting  out  her  mother's  nose  and  mouth  with  a  down-soft 
palm.  Barbara  kissed  it  as  it  clutched  at  her  lips,  then 
taking  it  in  her  own,  played  with  the  fingers,  so  like 
pale  honeysuckle-buds. 

"  Oh,  you  pretty  one !"  she  went  on,  presently,  tears 
in  her  wistful  eyes.  "  Perhaps  by  another  cradle,  at 
this  very  minute,  another  mother,  as  unhappy  as  I  am, 
is  wondering  over  the  future  of  the  atom  who  is  to 
darken  all  your  life.  Poor  babykin !  Poor,  pretty 
babykin !  I  feel  half  guilty  when  I  look  at  you.  But 
oh !  if  I  have  learned  any  wisdom  through  my  own 
pain,  I  will  try  to  save  you  from  such  tortures, — if  you 
will  be  saved !"  She  smiled  sadly,  sceptically,  leaning 
her  head  against  the  railing  of  the  white  crib.  Fair 
plunged  her  released  fingers  into  the  heavy  coils  of 
hair  and  jerked  them  with  fierce  delight. 

"  Oh,  you  cruel  little  thing !"  cried  Barbara,  starting 
up,  tears  of  pain  succeeding  the  tears  of  tenderness. 
"  Are  you  beginning  to  hurt  me  already  ?" 

"  A-glee !  A-glee !"  bubbled  Fair,  imperturbably,  once 
more  attacking  the  loose  toes  of  her  socks,  and  taking 
no  further  notice  of  her  mother. 

Barbara  went  over  to  the  window  and  stood  looking 
out  at  the  lawn,  which  was  dusted  with  buttercups. 

21* 


246  BARBARA  DERING. 

11  How  idiotic  of  me  to  be  hurt  by  that  little  crea 
ture  !  And  yet  I  am  hurt.  I  must  be  more  stoical, — I 
will  be.  I  cannot  live  in  this  way.  Now,  I  will  be 
practical  and  go  for  a  long  ride.  Eamie  dear,  order 
Wilful ;  and,  if  you  would  like  to,  you  shall  go  with 
me.  You  can  ride  the  brown  mare." 

Rameses,  who  was  a  fervent  horsewoman,  was  in  an 
ecstasy  of  delight.  When  they  started  off,  she  galloped 
behind  her  mistress  until  Barbara  turned,  with  a  smile, 
and  beckoned  her  to  her  side. 

"  Now,  Ramie  dear,"  she  said,  "  I'm  a  girl  again,  and 
so  are  you,  and  we  are  going  to  talk  like  sisters.  Isn't 
it  a  perfect  day?  Look  at  those  clouds  over  there  with 
that  curious  round  hole  in  them.  The  sunlight  streams 
through  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  doesn't  it  ?  Why, 
how  strange !  how  lovely  I  There's  a  little  rainbow  on 
one  side.  Look !" 

"  Dat's  what  de  colored  folks  calls  a  sun-dawg,"  an 
swered  Barneses. 

"  And  what  does  it  mean  ?"  said  Barbara. 

"  Hit  means  bad  weather." 

"  I  never  saw  it  before,  did  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yease'm ;  an'  hit  always  mean  bad  weather, — 
dat  sun-dawg  mean  bad  weather, — he  so  beeg." 

11  Well,  here's  a  good  piece  of  road.  Let's  gallop," 
broke  in  Barbara,  with  a  sigh. 

When  they  pulled  up  again,  she  said,  abruptly, — 

"Eamie,  are  you  glad  or  sorry  that  slavery's 
over?" 

"Why,  Miss  Barb'ra?" 

"  Because  I'm  glad.  Those  dreadful  stories  you  tell 
me!  I  couldn't  have  borne  it.  It  would  have  made 
me  so  miserable.  And  yet,  when  the  slaves  were  happy, 
they  were  very  happy,  weren't  they  ?" 


BARBARA  DERING.  247 

"  Some  wuz  in  heaven  an'  some  in  hell.  Dat  wuz  de 
wust  of  hit,"  said  Eameses,  slowly. 

"But  you?'  said  Barbara. 

"  Me  ?  Lor' !  Ole  miss  jes'  rottened  me  wid  goodness. 
But  shuh  !  talk  'bout  slav'ry,  Miss  Barb'ra,  I'se  been  a 
slave  an'  I'se  seen  slaves  an'  I  knows,  an'  dis  slav'ry  uv 
marriage  is  de  wussest  slav'ry  in  life !  Ef  I  could  git 
free  onct,  I'd  ruw,  ef  anybordy  call  de  name  'man.' " 

Barbara  laughed  outright.  Then  she  held  out  her 
hand  affectionately,  and  Martha  Ellen  placed  in  it  her 
slim  brown  fingers. 

"  Are  you  so  unhappy,  dear  ?"  said  Barbara,  gently. 

"  Gawd,  He  knows  I'se  mizzabul,"  answered  the  other, 
her  great  eyes  brimming  over.  "  I'se  ben  so  true  an' 
kine  tuh  Tobit,  Miss  Barb'ra.  But  shuh  !  mens  ain'  got 
de  sense  dey  bawn  wid,  nohow.  Dat  critter  Tobit  run 
arter,  she  jes'  ez  black  an'  bony  ez  a  griddle !"  Here 
Martha  Ellen's  unfailing  sense  of  humor  made  her  show 
her  pretty  teeth. 

"  He  isn't  worth  your  little  finger,"  cried  Barbara, 
hotly.  "  How  can  you  bear  it,  Eamie  ?" 

"  Wommens  has  tuh  bear  things,  somehow,  Miss  Bar 
b'ra,"  said  the  other,  concisely.  "  Bat's  how  I  bears  hit." 

Barbara  was  silent  for  a  long  while.  When  she 
looked  about  her  again  she  saw  that  a  great  cap  of 
clouds  was  settling  over  the  fields. 

"Hit's  dat  ole  sun-dawg,"  said  Eameses. 

"And  my  saddle's  turning,"  replied  Barbara.  She 
slipped  down  and  began  to  investigate,  while  Martha 
Ellen  held  Wilful's  bridle.  "  Good  heavens !  the  girth's 
broken.  What  a  bore !" 

"An'  dat's  a  bad  storm  comin'  up,"  said  the  other, 
ominously.  "  You  git  up  on  my  hawse,  Miss  Barb'ra, 
an'  I'll  walk  an'  lead  Wilfur." 


248  BARBARA  DERINO. 

As  they  were  standing  there  a  rattling  of  wheels 
came  nearer,  and  Barbara  saw  that  it  was  Bransby 
driving  alone  in  the  children's  buckboard.  He  stopped 
to  ask  if  he  could  help  them. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara,  rather  vaguely. 
"  There's  going  to  be  a  storm,  I  think,  and  my  horse  is 
afraid  of  lightning.  I  wouldn't  mind  that,  though,  but 
the  girth  is  broken,  and  I  haven't  a  surcingle." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Miss  Barb'ra,"  ventured  Barneses. 
"  Ef  Mr.  Bransby  '11  take  you  up,  I'll  lead  de  hawses 
tuh  Susan  Flemin's,  over  in  dat  field  dere,  an'  you  kin 
sen*  Tobit  fur  'em  when  de  stawm's  over." 

"  Yes,  do  let  me  drive  you  home,  Mrs.  Bering,"  said 
Bransby,  with  an  attempt  at  cordiality. 

The  clouds  were  now  black  and  veined  with  such 
vivid  lightning  that  Barbara  consented,  and  got  into 
the  buckboard.  Bransby  had  no  carriage-rugs  with 
him,  and  Barbara's  short,  scant  habit  displayed  fully 
her  arched  feet  in  their  russet  leather  riding-boots. 

She  smiled  a  little  wickedly  as  she  braced  them  com 
fortably  against  the  dash-board,  remembering  how 
very  long  poor  Eunice  was  compelled  to  wear  her 
habit-skirts,  and  thinking  of  the  wide,  old-fashioned 
trousers  which  she  strapped  under  her  walking-boots. 
Even  this  was  a  concession  over  which  Bransby  had 
winced.  As  they  drove,  he  so  prim  and  erect,  with  his 
neat  little  hands  manipulating  whip  and  reins  as 
daintily  as  though  he  had  been  knitting,  the  spirit  of 
mischief  rose  in  Barbara,  until  presently  she  actually 
crossed  one  knee  over  the  other  with  an  air  of  serene 
unconsciousness.  She  saw  Bransby's  lips  tighten  and 
his  brows  begin  to  pleat. 

"How  fortunate  that  you  came  along  when  you 
did !"  she  then  said,  in  her  sweetest  voice.  "  And  what 


BARBARA   DER1NG.  249 

a "  She  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  Bering's  most 

sporting  expressions.  "  What  a  rattling  good  *  gee' 
you've  got  there !"  she  ended,  glibly. 

"  Yes,  it's  an  excellent  animal,"  replied  Bransby, 
austerely. 

"  Bather  light  of  bone,  isn't  she  ?"  asked  Barbara, 
with  a  knowing  air. 

"  Of  course  she  is  not  perfect,"  said  Bransby. 

"  Jolly  good  quarters,  though  !"  she  went  on,  calmly. 
"  Fine  barrel !  Have  you  named  her  yet  ?" 

"No ;  we  are  discussing  the  matter  now." 

"  Good  gracious !"  said  Barbara,  with  elaborate  inno 
cence.  "  Discussing  it !  Why,  there's  only  one  name 
possible  for  her !" 

"Indeed?    And  that?"  inquired  Bransby,  stiffly. 

" '  Ballet-girl,'  of  course !" 

" '  Ballet-girl  ?'     But  why,  if  I  may  ask  ?" 

"  Why,  on  account  of  those  long  stockings.  It's  the 
only  name  really, — and  so  original." 

"  Er — entirely  original,"  admitted  Bransby,  with 
tartness.  "  But  er — er — I  prefer  short  names  for  a 
horse." 

"  Why,  call  her  *  Socks,'  then,"  suggested  Barbara. 
"That's  short  enough,  isn't  it?" 

"  I  think  I  shall  let  Eunice  name  her,"  he  replied. 

Barbara,  who  had  been  searching  for  her  handker 
chief  during  this  conversation,  discovered  an  old  ciga 
rette-case  of  Bering's  in  one  of  the  pockets  of  her 
covert-coat.  Her  eyes  gleamed,  but  she  drew  it  forth 
demurely  and  began  examining  its  contents  with  an 
air  of  intense  interest. 

"  Pshaw !"  she  exclaimed,  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  disgust. 
"  They're  all  broken !  What  a  shame !" 

Bransby  could  not  restrain  himself  any  longer. 


250  BARBARA   DERING. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Bering,"  he  said,  in  a  withheld 
sort  of  tone,  "  but  as  your  friend's  husband,  as  a  Vir 
ginian,  I — I  must  really  advise  you  not  to  smoke  on 
the  public  road." 

Barbara,  who  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  such  a 
thing  as  of  laying  Fair  on  hot  coals  to  secure  her  im 
mortality,  looked  up  with  guileless  eyes  and  said, — 

"But  why?" 

"  I  do  not  think  your  neighbors  would  understand  it. 
You  would  be  very  harshly  judged." 

"Ob,  I  am  that  now,"  she  returned,  easily.  "Hav 
ing  one's  neighbors  misjudge  one  is  like  breaking  a 
pair  of  boots.  Just  at  first  it  pinches  a  little,  but 
that's  soon  over.  However,  I  won't  vex  you  by 
smoking." 

"lam  extremely  indebted  to  you,"  said  Bransby. 

Barbara  took  in  his  whole  attitude  of  controlled 
disgust  from  the  corner  of  her  eyes,  and  was  as 
malevolently  delighted  as  a  child  who  has  played 
some  naughty  prank  on  an  unloved  elder.  Her  fertile 
mind  began  to  devise  new  schemes  for  teasing  him.  A 
sudden  inspiration  made  her  whistle  softly.  This  ac 
complishment  she  possessed  in  a  rare  degree,  and  an 
impassioned  aria  from  "  Faust"  now  fell  flutily  from 
her  pursed  lips.  She  broke  off  suddenly,  wishing  to 
vary  his  torture  as  much  as  possible,  and  exclaimed, — 

"Patti  is  to  be  in  Washington  next  week,  and 
'  Faust'  is  the  first  opera  in  which  she  sings.  Couldn't 
we  make  up  a  party  and  go  to  hear  her?  Eunice 
would  enjoy  it  so  heartily." 

"  I — er — that  is — we  never  go  to  the  opera,"  said  the 
uncomfortable  Bransby. 

"Not  go  to  the  opera!"  And  again  she  turned  to 
him  with  that  maddening  " But  why?" 


BARBARA   DER1NO.  251 

"  I  disapprove  of  emotional  music." 

"  You  disapprove  of  Gounod's  music  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  of  '  Faust'  particularly.  It  is  an  immoral 
story,  and  the  music  is  in  a  high  degree  immoral." 

"  Oh,  you  are  a  disciple  of  Tolstoi !" 

"  I  agree  with  him  in  his  views  regarding  such 
music,  assuredly." 

"  But  what  is  there  in  the  music  of  l  Faust'  that 
strikes  you  as  immoral?" 

"It  is  too  intense, — too — er — er — unnatural.  The 
men  and  women  of  to-day  do  not  indulge  in  such  over 
strained  emotions." 

"  But  they  must,  if  this  music  rouses  such  terribly 
dangerous  sensations  in  them." 

She  saw  his  face  turn  a  dull  red  in  the  gathering 
twilight. 

"  It  is  useless  for  us  to  discuss  such  matters,  Mrs. 
Bering.  Our  views  are  entirely  opposed." 

"Indeed  they  are!"  breathed  Barbara,  fervently. 
Then  she  began  again, — 

"  So  you  believe  that  virtue  consists  in  an  absence  of 
emotion." 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  replied  Bransby,  uneasily. 

"No,  but  you  implied  it.  Now  I,  for  my  part, 
think  that  the  more  we  feel  the  greater  we  are,  and  I 
have  some  very  good  authorities  to  back  me  up  in  this 
opinion.  Gibbon,  Mommsen,  and  Euskin  all  agree  that 
genius  cannot  exist  without  passion.  Life  is  glorious, 
and  those  who  feel  most  live  most  intensely.  To  me 
poor  Gretchen's  story  is  one  of  the  tenderest  and  most 
touching  ever  written." 

"  Indeed?"  said  Bransby,  with  thinned  lips. 

"  I  see  that  it  disgusts  you.  If  one  of  your  daugh 
ters  happened  to  share  the  fate  of  poor  Olivia  Prim- 


252  BARBARA  D BRING. 

rose,  you  would  not  act  as  the  old  vicar  did,  would 
you?" 

"  Mrs.  Bering,  such  allusions  are  intolerable !" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  simply  stating  an  imag 
inary  case.  But  it  is  really  a  pity  for  me  to  make  you 
dislike  me  more  than  you  do  already,  because  Eunice  is 
so  dear  to  me." 

"  Dislike  you  ?"  stammered  Bransby. 

"Yes, — hate  me  almost.  I  really  think  you  have 
indulged  in  an  l  intense  emotion'  there,  Mr.  Bransby, 
and  I  have  been  fanning  it  into  a  still  more  fervid 
glow,  during  the  last  half-hour.  What  a  pity !  I  love 
Eunice  more  than  any  woman  in  the  world,  and  her 
husband  dislikes  me  in  proportion." 

"  I — I  scarcely  know  you,"  murmured  the  wretched 
Bransby. 

"No;  it  is  instinctive,"  said  Barbara,  philosophi 
cally.  "  But  perhaps" — she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face — 
"  perhaps  we  might  detest  each  other  less,  if  we  knew 
each  other  better." 

{<  So  you  confess  that  you  do  not  like  me,  either !" 
exclaimed  Bransby,  catching  at  this  straw. 

"  Why,  you  must  have  known  that  all  along,"  said 
Barbara,  with  calmness.  "Whatever  my  faults  may 
be,  I  am  not  a  hypocrite." 

"  You  think  me  a  hypocrite,  I  dare  say,"  returned 
Bransby. 

"  No ;  I  think  you  narrow,  and — but  what  is  the  use  ? 
I  shall  only  make  you  hate  me  more." 

"  But  I  wish  to  know.  Please  oblige  me  by  finishing 
your  sentence,"  said  Bransby,  with  an  actual  touch  of 
eagerness.  "What  is  it  that  you  think  me,  besides 
narrow  ?" 

"  Well,    cold-blooded,"    said     Barbara ;     "  but    you 


BARBARA  BERING.  253 

admire  cold-bloodedness,  so  why  should  you  be 
vexed?" 

There  was,  in  fact,  no  logical  reason  why  Bransby 
should  feel  the  intense  indignation  which  overwhelmed 
him  at  these  words.  He  did  not  speak,  for  some 
moments.  Black  clouds  now  draped  three  parts  of  the 
sky,  and  only  a  faint  crocus-colored  light  quivered 
along  the  north-east.  A  wild  flag  of  wind  was  shaken 
through  the  air,  and  a  low  noise  of  thunder  rolled 
heavily  overhead.  Some  birds  streamed  twittering 
from  a  tree  close  by, 

"  What  a  storm  it  is  going  to  be !"  exclaimed  Bar 
bara,  looking  about  her.  "  I  don't  think  we  can  reach 
Eosemary  in  time.  The  Poplars  is  nearer." 

A  blare  of  thunder  shook  the  darkening  air.  Again 
the  birds  shrieked  and  circled,  and  the  mare  began  to 
snort  nervously  and  twitch  her  ears. 

"  Is  she  lightning-shy  ?"  asked  Barbara. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Bransby,  who  was  rather 
pale.  "  I  have  only  had  her  a  week.  But  pray  don't 
be  alarmed." 

"  Oh,  don't  bother,"  she  said,  cheerfully.  "  I  was 
never  afraid  of  horses,  or  lightning,  either.  Besides, 
one  wouldn't  get  much  of  a  fall  from  this  trap." 

Bransby  gave  her  an  admiring  glance,  in  spite  of 
himself.  Her  attitude  was  one  of  such  calm  ease  and 
self-confidence,  as  she  sat  leaning  back,  one  foot  braced 
in  front  of  her,  her  arms  lightly  folded.  She  was  not 
pale.  On  the  contrary,  her  color  had  deepened  richly 
in  the  strong  wind.  Her  serene  eyes  were  bent  upon 
the  ever-narrowing  band  of  yellow  glare  before  them. 
She  looked  as  composed  as  a  young  goddess  who  had 
ordered  a  big  thunder-storm  for  her  amusement  and 
was  watching  its  progress  from  some  safe  shelter. 


254  BARBARA  DERING. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  will  be  thoroughly  drenched,"  he 
said,  at  last.  "  I've  no  rugs  with  me,  and  I  felt  a  drop 
on  my  cheek  just  then." 

"  That's  nothing,"  she  rejoined,  gayly.  "  I'm  neither 
rheumatic  nor  consumptive,  or,  as  my  old  mammy  used 
to  put  it,  I'm  not  made  of  salt  or  sugar,  and  won't 
melt.  I  rather  like  a  good  sousing  once  in  a  while. 
Look  out !" 

A  flash  of  lightning  shimmered  across  the  northern 
sky,  and  the  mare  reared  and  plunged  frantically  for  a 
second  or  two.  Barbara  clinched  her  hands,  in  her 
effort  to  resist  the  impulse  to  take  the  reins  from 
Bransby's  incapable-looking  little  fingers,  but  he  man 
aged  somehow  to  pull  things  together,  and  they  went 
on  again. 

"  If  we  can  only  make  the  first  gate,  before  it  gets 
quite  dark  we'll  be  all  right,"  she  said,  in  her  cheery 
voice,  which  was  such  a  contrast  to  his  agitated, 
wrinkled  little  face. 

"  Ah,  yes,  yes,  so  we  will !  That  is  the  gate  now, 
isn't  it  ?  And  open,  too  ?" 

The  darkness  had  closed  down  as  suddenly  as  a 
black  cloth  thrown  over  a  cage.  They  could  not  see 
an  inch  in  front  of  them,  until  a  flicker  of  lightning 
showed  the  gateway  and  its  tall  posts.  The  gate  was 
open. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  the  way  better  than  I  do," 
she  ventured  to  suggest  as  he  drove  through,  scraping 
the  off- wheel  as  he  did  so,  "  but  I'm  going  to  remind 
you  that,  about  twenty  yards  from  here,  there's  a 
rather  bad  ditch,  so  keep  well  to  the  right.  Hullo, 
though  ! — where  are  you  going  ?  Aren't  you  driving 
up  a  bank  ?  I'm  sure  you  are.  This  isn't  the  road." 
Another  flare  of  lightning  showed  her  the  scared  ob- 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  255 

long  of  Bransby's  face  and  his  hands  tugging  unskil 
fully  at  the  bewildered  mare's  mouth.  They  were 
half-way  up  a  steep  bank  to  the  right.  Again  they 
drove  on  a  little  way  in  some  order,  but  Barbara  had 
now  gathered  herself  together  alert,  ready  to  spring, 
when  the  final  fiasco  came,  as  she  felt  it  must.  True 
to  the  courtesy  of  the  craft,  she  had  not  once  laid  her 
hands  on  Bransby's  fingers.  Another  flash  of  rose- 
white  glare,  another  wild  plunging  to  right  and  left. 
Again  the  lightning.  She  saw  the  mare's  glistening 
back,  for  an  instant,  as  she  reared  desperately,  then 
found  herself,  all  of  a  sudden,  sprawled  out  upon  the 
warm,  palpitating  body  of  the  fallen  brute.  She  got 
at  once  to  her  feet,  felt  for  the  horse's  head,  and,  grasp 
ing  the  bit,  shouted  to  Bransby.  He  answered  franti 
cally, — 

"  Yes.  I'm  not  hurt.  I'm  coming.  Are  you  safe, 
Mrs.  Dering?  Thank  God!  Where's  the  mare ?  She's 
run  away,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  she  hasn't,"  Barbara  called  back.  "  Don't  come 
any  nearer  yet, — she  might  strike  you  in  scrambling 
up.  So,  my  pet!  So,  my  beauty!  There  you 
are !" 

She  patted  and  soothed  the  mare,  who  was  once 
more  on  her  legs  trembling  and  snorting  with  fright. 
The  rain  now  fell  in  torrents,  and  the  thunder  was 
dying  away  towards  the  south-east. 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand,  thousand  times,  Mrs.  Der 
ing  !"  gasped  forth  Bransby,  limping  up.  "  How  very 
brave  of  you  to  stand  by  the  mare !  Are  you  sure 
you're  all  right?  I've  hurt  my  knee  somehow. 
Nothing  of  any  consequence,  but  it's  rather  hard  for 
me  to  walk.  Ugh !"  he  ended,  with  a  wheezing  sound, 
squeezed  from  him  by  pain.  The  hissing  darkness 


256  BARBARA  DERINQ. 

surrounded  them  for  miles,  and  they  could  only  guess 
their  whereabouts  by  the  now  infrequent  glimpses  of 
the  lightning. 


XXXI. 

BARBARA  could  not  help  laughing  at  their  absolute 
helplessness.  The  rippling,  human,  healthy  sound  rang 
out  through  the  streaming  night,  and  at  once  Bransby 
felt  his  nerves  steadied  and  his  heart  cheered  in  spite 
of  himself.  He  was  conscious,  with  a  strange  little 
pang,  that  his  ideal  woman  would  be  sadly  out  of  place 
in  this  situation,  and  that  Eunice's  trailing  skirt  and 
long  trousers  would  be  absolute  disadvantages  where 
the  scorned  russet  boots  and  short  habit  were  now 
shown  to  be  so  sensible. 

"  If  your  knee  is  hurt,  Mr.  Bransby,"  she  said, 
when  she  had  conquered  her  desire  for  mirth,  "  why 
don't  you  get  into  the  trap  ?  I  can  guess  the  way 
pretty  well,  and  I'll  lead  the  mare,  until  we're  in  the 
road." 

"  Impossible !"  whistled  Bransby,  who  was  now 
clinching  his  under  lip  with  his  teeth.  "  I  could  not 
think  of  allowing  you  to  do  such  a  thing." 

"  But  if  you  faint,  it  will  be  ten  times  harder  for  me," 
said  Barbara,  practically ;  "  and  I  can  tell  by  your 
voice  that  you  are  suffering  a  great  deal.  Do  let  me 
help  you  into  the  wagon." 

"  No,  no !"  moaned  Bransby.  They  went  on  slowly 
for  a  few  yards. 

"  Mr.  Bransby !"  called  Barbara,  suddenly. 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered  back,  in  faint  tones. 

There  was  now  a  watery  glimmer  as  of  coming  moon- 


BARBARA  D BRING.  257 

light.  Objects  could  be  seen  in  blurry  masses.  She 
ventured  to  leave  the  mare's  head  and  run  to  Bransby. 

"  What  is  it  ?     Are  you  worse  ?'?  she  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know.     I  feel  very  giddy,"  he  replied. 

"  How  is  your  knee  hurt  ?"  she  then  demanded.  "  Is 
it  sprained  or  cut  ?'' 

"  Cut,  I  think." 

"  Good  heavens,  man !  you  may  be  bleeding  to 
death  !  It  may  be  an  artery !" 

Her  voice  was  anxious  for  the  first  time,  and,  kneel 
ing  down,  she  peremptorily  rolled  up  his  trouser  and 
felt  his  knee.  A  jet  of  soft,  warm  fluid  at  once  shot 
through  her  fingers,  splashing  her  cheek  and  breast. 
She  said  nothing  to  Bransby,  but,  taking  off  one  of 
her  elastic  garters  and  feeling  for  the  silver  skewer 
which  fastened  her  braids  in  place,  began  deftly  to  ar 
range  a  tourniquet  above  the  knee-cap.  Bransby  was  by 
this  time  so  faint  that  he  leaned  heavily  against  the  back 
of  the  buck-board  without  offering  any  remonstrance. 

"I  must  hurt  you  a  little,  Mr.  Bransby,"  she  said 
presently,  as  her  strong  hands  continued  to  twist  the 
improvised  ligature,  "  and  when  I  have  this  as  tight  as 
I  can  make  it,  you  must  help  me  by  trying  to  hold 
it  in  place,  and  then  get  into  the  cart.  I'm  afraid 
you've  hurt  yourself  very  badly." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bransby,  in  a  queer,  far-away  voice,  and 
then  all  at  once  he  doubled  up  in  a  heap,  against  her 
shoulder.  For  the  first  time,  Barbara  felt  desperate. 
The  mare  was  only  standing  still,  from  sheer  bewilder 
ment,  and  might  tear  off  at  any  moment,  dashing  the 
buck-board  to  pieces  and  scaring  poor  Eunice  terribly- 
Then  she  would  be  left  alone,  for  an  indefinite  length 
of  time,  in  this  glimmering  darkness,  with  her  arch 
enemy  swooning  on  her  shoulder,  and  only  her  twisted 
r  22* 


258  BARBARA  DERING. 

garter  between  him  and  death.  Again  she  felt  an 
almost  ungovernable  laughter  welling  within  her,  but 
shut  her  lips  firmly  and  refused  to  give  way  to  the  in 
appropriate  desire.  Then  she  thought  of  hallooing  for 
help,  but  was  afraid  to  do  this  on  account  of  the  mare. 

"  She — she  stands  very  well,"  murmured  Bransby, 
coming  partially  to  his  senses.  "  Where  am  I  ?  What's 
the  matter  ?" 

"Lie  still!  Lie  still!"  said  Barbara,  irritably. 
"  You've  cut  an  artery,  I'm  afraid,  and  it's  all  I  can  do 
to  keep  this  tourniquet  tight  enough.  Please  lie  still. 
I'm  very  strong ;  I  don't  feel  your  weight  at  all." 

Bransby  was  too  faint  and  dazed  to  resist,  and  let  his 
head  drop  back  upon  one  of  the  broad  shoulders  which 
he  had  so  often  sneered  at  as  "  unfeminine."  Barbara 
was  suddenly  aware  of  a  crisp,  curt  sound,  and  knew 
that  the  mare  was  cropping  the  wet  clover. 

"  Thank  God !"  she  could  not  help  exclaiming. 

"  For  what  ?"  said  poor  Bransby. 

"  Why,  the  mare  is  grazing.  I  couldn't  leave  you, 
and  I  was  afraid  that  she  would  bolt  and  frighten 
Eunice.  How  do  you  feel  now  ?" 

"Dizzy,"  said  Bransby,  trying  to  lift  his  head. 
"  Yery  dizzy,"  he  gulped,  letting  it  fall  back  again. 

"Do  you  happen  to  have  a  flask  of  brandy  about 
you  ?"  asked  Barbara. 

"  I — I — have  not  touched  a  drop  of  liquor,  for  fifteen 
years.  I  would  not  touch  it  now,  though  I  were 
dying." 

"  The  devil  you  wouldn't !"  said  Barbara,  with  stern 
unconsciousness  of  her  strong  language.  "  If  I  had 
some  brandy  here,  we  should  soon  see  whether  you'd 
take  it  or  not." 

She  gave  him  a  slight  shake  in  her  vexation. 


BARBARA  DERING.  259 

"Mrs.  Bering! — Mrs.  Bering!"  murmured  poor 
Bransby,  "  you — you — you  have  saved  my  life.  I  thank 
you.  But — but — such  expressions !  Eunice, — you  are 
her  friend.  It — it  is  terrible — to  hear  a  woman  use 

such — such "  His  head  dropped  and  he  fainted 

again.  Then  Barbara  gave  way  and  laughed  heartily, 
though  somewhat  drearily. 

"  To  think  of  my  using  such  masculine  language  to 
such  a  lady-like  little  man  !"  she  said,  at  last.  "  Why, 
I  actually  said  '  the  devil'  to  him !  I  doubt  if  he  ever 
speaks  to  me  again !"  And  a  rhyme  that  she  had  once 
read,  in  some  magazine,  began  to  run  in  her  head : 

"And  I  own  I  fairly  revel 
In  the  way  that  you  say  '  devil,' 
Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle." 

All  at  once  she  saw  a  small,  blurred  gleam  moving 
uncertainly  in  the  murky  distance,  then  another  and 
another.  Her  heart  gave  a  relieved  jump.  She  knew 
that  these  will  o-wispish  lights  were  the  lanterns  of 
those  whom  Eunice  had  sent  out  to  look  for  Bransby. 
When  the  men  had  lifted  him  into  the  buck-board  and 
she  sat  beside  him  still  grasping  the  tourniquet,  she 
realized  for  the  first  time,  with  a  horrified  shiver,  that 
he  might  have  died  out  there  against  her  shoulder. 

It  was  not  until  the  doctor  had  come  and  gone  and 
Bransby  was  safe  in  bed  that  she  dared  laugh  again. 
And  this  she  did,  until  Eunice  declared  her  hysterical 
and  brought  her  a  foaming  milk-punch  which  she  had 
shaken  with  her  own  hands. 

The  next  day  Barbara  had  one  of  her  severe  head 
aches,  and  her  head  was  found  to  have  been  badly 
bruised,  in  spite  of  her  thick  hair.  Eunice  insisted  on 
keeping  her  with  her,  for  a  week  at  least,  and  Fair  was 


260  BARBARA   DERING. 

sent  for  and  comfortably  established  in  a  sunny  room 
next  to  the  children's  nursery.  The  week  lengthened 
into  a  fortnight  and  the  fortnight  into  a  month  and 
still  Barbara  remained. 

It  was  the  last  of  May,  before  Bransby,  whose  wound 
had  been  followed  by  a  fever,  was  allowed  to  come 
down  and  lie  upon  a  sofa  in  the  library,  although  he 
had  moved,  from  room  to  room,  up-stairs.  Barbara, 
who  was  sitting  there  when  he  was  brought  in,  offered 
to  read  to  him.  Bransby  accepted  this  offer  before  Mrs. 
Crosdill's  dark  figure  unsheathed  itself  from  the  long 
white  muslin  curtains  at  one  of  the  windows. 

"  /  have  been  looking  forward  to  the  pleasure  of 
reading  to  you.  Godfrey,  for  many  weeks,"  she  said. 

Bransby  looked  appealingly  from  one  woman  to  the 
other,  and  Barbara  said  at  once,  with  her  ready  good 
humor, — 

"Why,  of  course,  Mrs.  Crosdill.  I  should  never 
have  offered  had  I  known  that  you  were  in  the  room. 
But  can't  I  find  a  book  for  you?  What  shall  it  be? 
—a  novel?" 

"  Yes ;  a  novel,  please,"  murmured  Bransby. 

"  A  standard  romance,  Mrs.  Dering,"  added  his  sister. 

"Well,"  announced  Barbara,  from  her  perch  on  the 
step-ladder.  "  Here  is  a  beautiful  edition  of  Thackeray. 
It  makes  one  long  to  read  him.  Eeally,  I  can't  see 
what  more  you  could  ask  than  '  Henry  Esmond'  illus 
trated  by  George  du  Maurier." 

"  Yes ;  let  it  be  Henry  Esmond.'  I  haven't  read  that 
since  I  was  a  boy." 

"  Ah,  yes,"  echoed  Mrs.  Crosdill,  "  that  is  the  book 
in  which  that  lovely  scene  occurs  where  those  verses 
from  the  Psalms  are  quoted.  Pray  let  me  have  that, 
Mrs.  Dering.  And  how  charmingly  it  is  illustrated! 


BARBARA  DERINO.  261 

This  young  girl  coming  down-stairs, — she  is  like  that 
portrait  of  Marianne  Bransby  by  Keynolds,  is  she 

not,  Godfrey  ?  And  here  is  a My  dear  Godfrey  !" 

she  exclaimed,  closing  the  heavy  volume  with  a  clack, 
"is  it  possible  that  Thackeray  wrote  of  such — such 
indecencies !" 

"What  indecencies?  What  indecencies,  Lydia?" 
asked  Bransby,  nervously. 

"Why,  there  is,  in  this  book," — she  dropped  it  sud 
denly  on  a  table  near  by  as  though  contaminated, — 
"  there  is,  in  that  book  an  illustration,  actually  an  illus 
tration, — I  am  almost  ashamed  to  utter  the  words, — 
but  a  drawing  of  a  man — kissing — a — woman's — foot." 
The  last  word  was  spoken  in  an  almost  inaudible  whis 
per.  "  And  people  have  Thackeray's  works  in  their 
household  library! — free  to  their  children  !  Why,  Wini 
fred  may  have  looked  at  that  very  picture — your  inno 
cent  child,  Godfrey!" 

"What  picture?"  demanded  Winifred,  appearing 
suddenly  as  though  by  magic,  with  a  large  silver  mug 
of  milk  clasped  to  her  soiled  pinafore,  and  a  large  slice 
of  brown-bread  and  honey  in  the  other  hand !  "  That 
be-yeutiful  picture  where  Mr.  Esmond  kisses  Miss 
Beatrix's  foot  ?  Of  course  I've  seen  it,  an'  it's  lovely. 
An'  don't  you  say  horrid  things  about  it,  Aunt  Lydia, 
because  you  jes'  dote  on  bishops,  an'  people  used  to 
kiss  their  feet." 

Barbara,  who  had  been  sitting  on  the  top  of  the 
step-ladder,  during  this  scene,  her  brows  lifted  and 
her  hands  clasped  about  her  knees,  nodded  sly  encour 
agement  to  Winifred,  during  that  young  lady's  fiery 
speech. 

"An' — an',"  continued  Win,  waxing  bolder  and 
bolder,  "  it  ain't  horrid  at  all,  'cause  I've  seen  Barbara's 


262  BARBARA  BERING. 

husban'  kiss  her  foot,  and  it  looked  so  pretty  that  I've 
played  it  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bridegroom,  in  my  doll's 
house,  so  there!" 

Barbara  was  in  convulsions  of  silent  mirth,  Bransby 
staring  helplessly,  and  Mrs.  Crosdill  literally  stupefied 
with  conflicting  emotions.     Then  she  said,  in  a  low 
venomous  voice,  to  her  brother, — 

"  This  comes  from  allowing  your  wife  to  choose  her 
own  companions  against  your  wishes !"  After  which 
gracious  speech  she  left  the  room. 

"  Father,"  said  Winifred,  her  voice  tremulous  with 
passion,  "  I  think  Aunt  Lydia's  a  wicked  woman  to  say 
such  things  at  Barbara.  An'  after  Barbara  saved  your 
life,  too !  An'  I  b'leeve  it's  all  because  you  couldn't 
make  anybody  kiss  her  higious  ole  feet.  An' " 

"  Hush !"  cried  Bransby,  with  such  explosive  force 
that  Win's  red  mouth  shut  like  a  trap,  and  she  turned 
and  walked  solemnly  back  into  the  dining-room,  to 
finish  her  lunch. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Bransby,"  said  Barbara,  demurely,  "  shall 
I  read  *  Henry  Esmond'  to  you,  or  is  its  immorality 
really  too  great?" 

"  My  sister  has — er — very  strong  feelings  about  such 
things,"  he  answered,  nervously. 

"  Does  she  really  think  it  wrong  for  Esmond  to  have 
kissed  Beatrix's  foot  ?" 

"  Er — er — I  fancy  it  is  more  a  question  of— er — of 
refinement." 

"  But  a  pretty  foot  is  considered  a  sign  of  refinement, 
is  it  not?  Surely  such  an  act  is  only  a  chivalrous 
homage.  What  possible  immorality  could  there  have 
been  in  Esmond's  touching  his  lips  to  Beatrix's  in 
step?" 

"I — er — these  things  are,  of  course,  a  matter  of 


BARBARA  DERING.  263 

taste.  I  myself  do  not  see  any  exact  immorality  in  it, 
but— er " 

"  Oh,  well !  I  suppose  it  depends  upon  the  foot  and 
the  man,"  said  Barbara,  laughing.  "  Beatrix  had  a 
pretty  foot  and  Esmond  a  gallant  nature.  I  can't  im 
agine  Calvin's  kissing  his  sweetheart's  foot,  for  exam 
ple,  or  Coriolanus,  or  Jack  Cade,  or  Orson,  or — or — 
Bishop  Cammersell,  for  that  matter!" 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Dering !" 

"  Why  do  you  exclaim  so  ?"  asked  Barbara,  malevo 
lently.  "  Is  there  anything  in  the  Thirty-nine  Articles 
against  a  bishop's  kissing  his  sweetheart's  foot  ?" 

"  ISTo, — no ;  of  course  not !  Only  these  things  have  a 
shocking  sound  to  an  orthodox  Christian's  ears.  I  am 
sure  you  mean  no  harm,  but  I  fear  that  you  are  very, 
very  unorthodox." 

"  I  am,"  said  Barbara,  briefly. 

"  I  have  even  heard  that  you  are  an  infidel." 

"  No ;  that  I  deny,"  she  said,  with  sudden  sternness. 

"  Then,  would  you  mind  telling  me  your  exact 
views  ?"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  anxiety. 

:'  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  should,  for  three  reasons : 
first,  because  I  have  no  fixed,  rigid  form  of  belief;  sec 
ondly,  because  my  views  would  be  sure  to  clash  with 
yours,  and  I  do  not  like  religious  discussions ;  and, 
thirdly,  because  I  am  answerable  to  God  alone  for  my 
thoughts  and  beliefs." 

"I  hope  that  I  have  not  made  you  angry,"  said 
Bransby. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  curious  change  in  his  feelings 
towards  her  ever  since  the  night  when  her  presence  of 
mind  had  saved  his  life.  Merely  feminine  attributes 
had  not  been  so  solely  valuable  to  him  since  that  time. 
While  he  continued  to  require  them  in  his  wife,  he  had 


264  BARBARA  D BRING. 

come  to  the  conclusion  that,  in  his  neighbor's  wife,  he 
did  not  altogether  disapprove  of  the  lack  of  them,  in 
moderation.  His  feeling  of  gratitude  had  also  dulled 
the  edge  of  his  dislike  for  her.  She  had  even  a  curious 
charm  for  him  which  was  something  like  that  exercised 
by  the  wreathings  of  brightly-colored  serpents  behind 
protecting  sheets  of  glass.  Her  unconventionalities,  and 
what,  to  him,  were  her  irreverences,  almost  her  blas 
phemies,  acted  like  a  tonic  on  his  torpid  vitality,  now 
made  feebler  and  more  languid  than  ever,  by  the  low 
fever  through  which  he  had  just  passed.  He  was  like 
the  friend  of  St.  Augustine,  who,  having  allowed  him 
self  to  look  upon  the  forbidden  sight  of  the  circus,  con 
tinued  to  gaze  at  it,  with  more  and  more  absorbing  in 
terest,  until  finally  its  fascination  overcame  him  and 
he  could  not  coerce  his  unwilling  eyes  into  submission. 
Bransby,  while  disapproving  of  Barbara's  ideas  and 
ethics,  as  strongly  as  ever,  had  become  unwillingly  en 
thralled  by  her  keen  personal  charm,  although  this  was 
a  fact  which  he  did  not  admit  to  himself.  He  took 
occasion  for  stating  calmly,  in  his  very  long  prayers, 
that  he  was  forcing  himself  to  take  an  interest  in  Bar 
bara  on  his  wife's  account,  since  she,  Eunice,  persisted 
in  having  her  for  a  friend. 

It  was  his  plain  duty,  he  explained  to  Providence,  to 
try  to  soften  Mrs.  Bering's  wild  views  of  life,  since  she 
was  the  chosen  and  intimate  companion  of  the  woman 
he  had  promised  to  cherish.  He  ended  by  asking  Prov 
idence  to  bless  his  poor  endeavors  and  to  enable  him  to 
conquer  his  dislike  for  the  object  of  his  prayers. 

He  was  somewhat  astonished,  in  the  present  instance, 
to  find  how  anxiously  he  waited  to  hear  that  he  had 
not  made  her  angry,  and  how  relieved  he  was  when 
she  assured  him  that  he  had  not  done  so.  At  the  same 


BARBARA   DERING.  265 

time  he  was  aware,  with  a  fantastic  incongruity,  that 
he  had  ceased  objecting  to  the  faint  dusting  of  freckles 
which  made  her  pale  skin  bloomy.  When  this  change 
had  taken  place,  he  could  not  precisely  remember,  and 
it  was  certainly  not  in  answer  to  prayer.  He  made  a 
sudden  restless  movement,  and  she  stopped  her  favorite 
trick  of  gazing  out  of  window  and  came  towards 
him. 

"You  look  uncomfortable.  I  will  beat  up  your 
pillows  for  you,"  she  said,  kindly. 

As  she  bent  over  him  Bransby  caught  the  sea-like 
perfume  of  her  hair,  and  glancing  up,  saw  that  there 
were  little  flecks  of  gold  in  the  brown  of  her  grave 
eyes.  He  caught  his  breath  suddenly. 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?"  she  asked,  arranging  the  last 
pillow.  "  Shall  I  call  Eunice  to  loosen  the  bandages  ?" 

"No,  no!"  he  said,  hastily.  "I  would  be  very 
grateful  if  you  would  read  to  me.  Anything  you 
choose.  Take  a  book  at  random." 

He  closed  his  eyes  listlessly,  but  could  still  see,  as 
though  they  had  been  open,  the  wreath  of  her  bright 
hair,  the  soft  flow  of  her  silkish,  gray-blue  gown,  and 
the  stir  of  a  dark  rose-bud  which  she  had  fastened  at 
her  breast. 


XXXII. 

BARBARA  was  also  beginning  to  think  that  she  had 
done  Bransby  injustice.  Seen  through  the  magnifying- 
glass  of  every-day  contact,  certain  virtues  became  ap 
parent  and  certain  faults  assumed  that  interesting 
quality  which  characterizes  most  unpleasant  things, 
thus  closely  scrutinized  under  a  powerful  lens.  Bar- 
M  23 


266  BARBARA  DERING. 

bara  wondered  at  the  consistency  with  which  he  pur 
sued  his  uncomfortable  principles.  As  soon  as  he  was 
able,  he  left  the  reclining-chair,  which  he  had  been 
obliged  to  use  while  an  invalid,  and  remained  for  hours 
sitting  bolt  upright  in  the  most  uncomfortable  atti 
tude.  For  recreation  he  was  reading  Kenan's  "  Life  of 
Christ,"  on  which  he  had  a  lock  put,  that  he  might 
turn  the  key  in  it  when  he  wished  to  lay  aside  his 
book,  thus  assuring  himself  that  none  of  the  feminine 
portion  of  his  household  should  be  contaminated,  by 
even  a  glance  between  such  infidel  pages.  He  acknowl 
edged  once  to  Barbara  that  the  work  caused  him  much 
more  pain  than  pleasure,  but  that  he  felt  it  to  be  his 
duty  to  master  all  Atheistic  arguments  that  he  might 
arm  himself  with  suitable  and  logical  replies. 

As  for  Barbara,  she  had  grown  quite  at  her  ease 
with  him, — even  ventured  to  tease  him,  and,  at  times, 
to  make  sly  fun  of  his  ruling  theories,  when  Mrs.  Cros- 
dill  was  not  by.  He  would  smile  stiffly  and  anxiously, 
under  her  quizzing,  with  that  nervous  compression  of 
the  lips  that  seems  to  imply  a  fear  of  their  splitting 
at  the  corners.  But  when  his  sister  happened  to  be 
present,  a  comical  look  of  appeal  would  creep  over  his 
pale  and  artificial  little  face,  and  his  eyes  would  flit 
nervously  from  her  to  Barbara  and  then  back,  after  a 
fashion  that  only  aggravated  his  tormentor's  demure 
malevolence. 

Mrs.  Crosdill's  dislike,  on  the  other  hand,  increased 
as  her  brother's  lessened,  until  she  distinctly  hated 
their  guest,  and  wrote  long  letters  of  piously-worded 
innuendo  to  Bishop  Cammersell  as  the  only  means  of 
relieving  her  surcharged  spirit. 

Without  hinting  such  a  thing  to  Eunice,  Barbara 
had  determined,  in  her  heart,  to  reform  and  revitalize 


BARBARA  DERING.  267 

Bransby,  as  much  as  possible,  even  if,  to  accomplish 
this  end,  she  had  to  use  a  series  of  shocks  on  her  sub 
ject's  nerves  as  startling  and  quite  as  wholesome  as 
those  given  by  an  electric  battery.  For  instance,  she 
sent  for  her  banjo,  on  which  she  thrummed  passably, 
and  began  to  sing  old  negro  and  Scotch  and  Irish  mel 
odies  and  love-songs  to  the  entranced  children,  tuning 
the  instrument  to  such  a  low  pitch,  in  order  to  suit  her 
low  voice,  that  the  slack  strings  scarcely  gave  forth 
more  than  a  drowsy  humming.  This  method  had  to 
be  resorted  to,  because  Barbara's  knowledge  of  her 
banjo  was  limited,  and  she  had  not  more  than  four  or 
five  sets  of  chords  at  her  command.  What  there  was 
of  her  voice,  however,  had  a  certain  delicious  quality. 

At  first  Bransby  contented  himself  with  not  inter 
fering.  One  evening,  however,  as  she  was  sitting  at 
sunset  on  the  steps  of  the  old  stone  porch  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  singing  to  Lois  and  Win,  while  they  ate 
their  supper  of  bread  and  milk,  he  came  up  and  for 
mally  asked  her  if  she  knew  a  certain  version  of  "  Abide 
with  me,"  which  he  particularly  admired.  Fortunately, 
although  her  repertoire  did  not  include  many  hymns, 
she  did  happen  to  know  the  very  one  that  he  wished  to 
hear,  and  sang  it  to  him  as  soon  as  she  could  settle 
upon  the  accompaniment. 

Lois  and  Win,  who  were  seated  opposite  each  other 
at  a  very  small  white,  wooden  table,  waited  decorously 
enough  until  she  was  through ;  but  as  soon  as  she 
stopped  banged  loudly  with  both  mugs  and  spoons  and 
demanded  "  Nelly  Grey"  and  "  Widow  Machree."  Bar 
bara  compromised  by  giving  them  "  Eobin  Adair." 

"  But  how  can  you  ask  me  to  sing,"  she  broke  off 
suddenly,  "  when  there's  such  a  voice  as  Eunice's  in 
the  house?  What  a  revelation  she  would  make  of 


268  BARBARA  DERINQ 

Eobin!  It's  too  bad  she  never  sings  now!  It's  a 
shame  not  to  have  a  piano  here !  Do  send  for  one,  Mr. 
Bransby ! — do !  and  make  Eunice  sing  you  *  Robin 
Adair.' " 

He  moved  and  gave  his  uneasy  smile.  "  You  forget 
I  am  really  sincere  in  my  doubts  about  music." 

"  Oh,  ho  1"  said  Barbara  to  herself.  "  His  doubts ! 
He  used  to  be  quite,  quite  sure,  when  I  first  met  him 
that  music  was  an  invention  of  the  Evil  One."  To  him 
she  said,  laughing, — 

"  Oh,  don't  be  so  consistent !  The  only  good  in 
making  up  one's  mind  is  in  watching  the  pleasure  one's 
friends  get  out  of  pulling  it  to  pieces.  It's  exactly  the 
principle  on  which  Lois  and  Win  make  gardens.  Isn't 
it,  dears  ?  Why,  there  wouldn't  be  an  atom  of  fun  in 
raking  a  bed  quite  smooth  to-day  and  sowing  pounds 
and  pounds  of  seed  in  it,  unless  you  meant  to  hoe  it  all 
up  to-morrow.  Would  there,  now?  Ah,  do  get  a 
piano !  A  house  without  a  piano  is  like  a  letter  with 
out  a  stamp,  or  a  dolly  without  a  squeak.  Isn't  it, 
Lolo?" 

"  Thert'ny  ith,"  said  Lois,  rounding  her  solemn  eyes 
upon  her  father,  and  scrubbing  even  the  tip  of  her  pink 
tongue  on  her  napkin  in  order  to  perform  the  duty  of 
wiping  her  button-hole  mouth,  with  absolute  conscien 
tiousness.  Win  did  not  say  anything.  In  fact,  she 
was  rather  frightened  at  Barbara's  boldness. 

The  next  day,  as  Bransby  was  standing  by  one  of 
the  drawing-room  windows,  looking  out  over  the  spring 
lawn,  his  sister  came  up  and  remained  silently  near 
him.  They  were  both  watching  a  little  procession 
which  was  making  its  way  over  the  grass  to  the  great 
elms  near  the  centre  of  the  lawn.  Barbara,  tall  and 
gay,  in  a  soft,  pale  pink  muslin  gown,  led  the  way,  her 


BARBARA  DERING.  269 

baby  over  her  shoulder,  its  head,  in  its  little  white  sun- 
bonnet,  making  a  daisy-like  nodding.  After  her,  trotted 
Win  and  Lois,  also  with  white  sun-bonnets,  and,  last  of 
all,  came  Eunice,  rather  pale,  under  her  parasol  of  lilac 
silk.  They  saw  Barbara  toss  her  banjo  and  book  upon 
the  grass,  then  throw  herself  down  like  a  child  and  roll 
about,  shaking  convulsive  chuckles  from  Fair,  whom 
she  held  high  overhead  in  both  hands.  Eunice  settling 
herself  near  by,  smiled  at  the  ecstatic  little  creature 
and  gave  it  the  round  ivory  handle  of  her  parasol  to 
clutch. 

"  What  very  extraordinary  antics  Mrs.  Bering  per 
mits  herself!"  said  Mrs.  Crosdill,  suddenly,  in  her  thin, 
curdled  tones.  Bransby  started  and  changed  color. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  any  one  was  in  the  room,"  he 
said,  with  some  nervousness. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  if  I  startled  you,  Godfrey.  But 
do  look !  I  beg  of  you  to  look !  Even  with  your 
changed  views  you  must  confess  that  it's  rather  shock 
ing  to  see  a  baby  given  a  banjo  for  a  plaything  !" 

"My  changed  views,  Lydia?  What  do  you  mean? 
Yes!  yes!  I  see  the  banjo.  I  must  confess  that  I 
should  not  like  Eunice  to  own  one,  but  we  must  not 
make  Procrustean  beds  of  our  views." 

Mrs.  Crosdill  looked  at  him  sharply,  never  having 
heard  of  Procrustes,  and  inclined  to  suspect  that  this 
strange  term  applied  to  beds  was  some  of  Barbara's 
unorthodox  and  dangerous  teaching. 

"  Touch  pitch  and  one  knows  what  follows,"  she  said, 
tartly. 

"  How  do  you  mean  '  touch  pitch,'  Lydia  ?  Whom 
do  you  refer  to  ?  '  Touch  pitch !'  It  is  not  a  very  nice 
expression.  Not  at  all  the  sort  of  expression  which 
you  generally  use." 

23* 


270  BARBARA  DERING.  \ 

This  was  not  calculated  to  soothe  Mrs.  Crosdill. 

"My  dear  Godfrey,  excuse  me  if  I  say  that  you 
know  very  well  to  what  I  allude.  Did  1  not  actually 
hear  that  woman  trying  to  persuade  you, — you,  to  admit 
a  piano  into  this  house  ?  And  did  you,  or  did  you  not, 
listen  patiently?  After  all  these  years  spent  on  dis 
ciplining  Eunice  in  the  matter,  too!  I  shall  not  be 
surprised  to  hear  that  you  allow  secular  music  to  be 
played  and  sung  under  your  roof  on  Sunday,  next 
thing!  And  do  you  think  that  }rou  are  doing  your 
duty,  in  letting  your  innocent  children  partake  in  the 
gambols  of  that  hoyden  ?  Do  you  think  her  negro- 
minstrel  songs  are  calculated  to  improve  them  mentally, 
or  to  aid  you  in  your  system  of  education  for  them  ? 
You  seem  to  have  grown  blind,  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  as  poor  St.  Paul  did.  I  only  hope  that  God,  in  His 
mercy,  will  see  fit  to  lighten  your  darkness.  Why,  the 
very  color  of  the  woman's  hair  is  enough  to  warn  you 
against  her !  Such  violence !  Such  boldness !  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  genteel,  refined  Christian  woman  with 
crimson,  yes,  crimson  hair  ?" 

Bransby  was  intensely  vexed,  all  the  more  so  that 
he  felt  his  sister's  reproach  to  be  in  some  measure 
merited. 

"  Excuse  me,  Lydia,  if  I  call  your  attention  to  the 
fact  that  you  are  being  as  unreasonable,  in  holding  Mrs. 
Dering  to  account  for  her  hair,  as  you  would  be  in 
blaming  an  Indian  for  the  color  of  his  skin." 

"  *  Skin  P  Such  a  disagreeable  word, — '  skin !'  "  mur 
mured  his  sister  in  parenthesis. 

"  I  must  say,"  he  continued, — "  I  must  say  that  you 
show  a  personal  feeling  against  Mrs.  Dering  which  is 
quite  apart  from  what  you  might  naturally  feel  against 
her  mistaken  theories  and  ideas." 


BARBARA  DERING.  271 

In  reply  to  this  daring  speech  she  drew  herself  quite 
an  inch  taller  and  left  the  room.  After  hesitating,  for 
a  second,  Bransby  went  to  join  the  group  on  the  sunny 
lawn. 

He  found  Barbara  trying  to  prize  a  katydid  from 
Fair's  tense  fingers  without  doing  violence  to  the  large- 
eyed  insect.  Fair  was  too  deeply  interested  in  baffling 
her  mother's  humane  attempt  to  think  of  protesting  in 
any  other  way  until  poor  katy  was  finally  rescued,  upon 
which  she  set  up  a  loud  roar,  shaping  her  small  mouth 
to  the  exact  likeness  of  a  tragic-mask  and  blotting  her 
eyes  from  sight. 

"Here,  Fair,  don't  cwy,  don't  cwy !"  urged  Lois,  unable 
to  endure  the  sight  of  such  anguish.  "  Here's  a  cwicket, 
a  bootiful,  bwown  cwicket."  And  as  Fair  stopped 
short,  in  the  midst  of  a  howl  and  stared  inquiringly 
through  great  tear-blobs,  Lois  extended  her  pink  fist, 
against  which  a  young  grasshopper  was  bracing  his 
hinge-like  legs  in  a  desperate  effort  to  escape. 

It  took  all  of  Barbara's  witch-like  knowledge  of 
child-nature  to  convince  Lois  that  she  was  not  a  cruel 
mamma  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  rouse  her  pity  for  the 
grasshopper  which  Fair  was  so  anxious  to  dismember ; 
but  peace  reigned  at  last,  and  Lois  grew  absorbed  in 
watching  a  pretty  Alderney  heifer  that  was  lying  in 
the  shade  of  a  horse-chestnut. 

Presently  she  said,  in  a  lowered  voice, — 

"Barbara,  what  ith  the  doing?" 

"Euminating,  my  dear,"  answered  Bransby,  who 
had  become  anxious  of  late  to  appear  more  interested 
in  his  children. 

"  Woominating  ?"  said  Lois,  her  small  brow  per 
plexed.  "  Woominating  ?  She  lookth  ath  if  the  were 
eating  herthelf."  Whereat  Bransby,  rather  discon- 


272  BARBARA  D BRING. 

certed,  joined  a  faint  note  of  laughter  to  the  merry  peal 
that  came  from  Barbara  and  Eunice. 

After  a  while  the  children  began  to  beg  to  go  to  the 
corn-house,  and  Eunice  offered  to  take  Fair  to  her  room 
with  her,  as  she  said  that  the  glare  was  beginning  to 
give  her  a  headache.  Bransby  decided  to  join  the  ex 
pedition,  and  the  four  set  off  along  a  pretty  path  which 
led  through  a  field  of  clover. 

The  corn-house  was  a  weather-grayed,  square  struc 
ture,  standing  on  locust  posts  near  the  ice-pond,  and 
through  the  open  slats  could  be  seen  the  ivory-colored 
ears  of  maize  slanting  nearly  against  the  roof  of  one 
side. 

"  They  look  like  giants'  teeth  grinning  at  us,"  ob 
served  Win,  who  printed  blood-curdling  fairy-stories  in 
pencil  on  the  margins  of  old  magazines,  much  to  Mrs. 
CrosdhTs  disgust. 

"  Oh,  don't,  Win !  How  horrid  !"  protested  Lois,  sid 
ling  closer  to  Barbara. 

Bransby  here  undertook  to  give  Win  a  lesson  in 
literary  composition. 

"  That  isn't  what  we  call  a  good  simile,  Winifred, 
my  dear,"  he  said,  speaking  very  distinctly,  "  because 
there  is  nothing  that  could  represent  the  mouths  of  the 
giants.  It  is  quite  impossible  that  the  side  of  a  building 
should  remind  you  of  the  mouth  of  a  giant." 

Win  skipped  along  cheerful  and  unimpressed. 

"  I  wasn't  talkin'  'bout  mouths ;  I  was  talkin'  'bout 
teeth.  They  do  look  like  teeth,  don't  they,  Barbara  ?" 

"  But  people  never  have  but  two  rows  of  teeth,"  ob 
jected  her  father,  "and,  on  every  ear  of  corn,  there 
are  at  least  ten.  You  see  you  are  still  exaggerating, 
my  daughter." 

«  Well,  that's  the  fun  of  it,"  exclaimed  Win.     "  Be- 


BARBARA  DERINO.  273 

sides,  Uncle  Hezekiah  Johnson's  got  three  rows,  'cause 
I  made  him  open  his  mouth  an'  let  me  see, — an'  it  was 
true !" 

"  Ith  thplendid  to  play  dentitht  with  'em,"  added 
Lois,  gravely. 

"  To  play  dentist  ?"  repeated  Bransby. 

"  Yeth ;  we  dig  holeth  in  the  gwainth  and  then  fill 
'em  with  the  thilver  off  of  bottleth." 

This  almost  incomprehensible  sentence  Barbara  had 
to  translate  to  him,  whereat  he  gave  way  to  a  puzzled 
smile  and  dropped  the  subject. 

Inside  of  the  corn-house  was  a  dusty,  sweet-smelling 
gloom,  pierced  here  and  there  by  rays  from  the  bril 
liant  day  without.  The  largo  room  was  divided  off  at 
one  end,  and  in  the  smaller  apartment  some  sitting  hens 
clucked  warningly  as  they  entered.  The  children  fell 
at  once  into  a  game  of  romps,  scrambling  up  the  steep 
and  uncertain  bank  of  corn  and  laughing  as  they 
slid  back  upon  the  floor  with  each  effort.  At  first 
Barbara  joined  in  their  fun,  but  finally  grew  so  warm 
that  she  climbed  up  a  ladder  which  had  been  placed 
against  one  wall  and  seated  herself,  with  her  book  in 
her  lap,  on  a  sort  of  ledge  which  allowed  her  feet  to 
rest  upon  the  top  of  the  mound  of  corn.  Bransby  fol 
lowed  her  and  sat  down  beside  her.  She  had  taken  off 
her  large  straw  hat  and  was  fanning  herself  with  it. 
At  each  vigorous  gust,  the  tendril-like  curls  above  her 
forehead  lifted  themselves  on  end  and  gave  forth  a  rich 
sparkle. 

Her  cheeks  reddened  and  paled  under  her  quick 
heart-beats,  and  her  laughing  lips  were  a  little  parted. 
Bransby  could  feel  how  wan  and  meagre  he  must  look, 
beside  this  glowing  condensation  of  life  and  health. 
He  thought,  without  reserve,  that  in  her  girlish  pink 


274  BARBARA  DERING. 

gown,  and  with  the  noble  curve  of  her  head  bare,  she 
was  the  most  beautiful  human  being  that  he  had  ever 
seen.  That  magnetism  which,  for  some  time  past,  he 
had  begun  to  feel,  drew  him  now  so  powerfully  that, 
without  being  conscious  of  it,  he  moved  a  little  closer 
to  her,  along  the  dusty  ledge. 

"  Isn't  it  nice  here  ?"  she  asked,  gayly,  roused  by  his 
movements.  "  I  dote  on  a  genuine  old  Virginian  corn- 
house,  don't  you  ?" 

Bransby  gazed  at  her  almost  solemnly,  and  said,  in 
measured  tones, — 

"  It  may  seem  strange  to  you,  but  I  do  not  think 
that  I  was  ever  in  one  before,  not  even  as  a  child." 

"Poor,  poor  you!'*  returned  Barbara,  shaking  her 
head.  "  Didn't  you  think  it  was  right  to  enter  a  corn- 
house  ?"  she  then  added,  with  some  mischief.  Bransby 
flushed. 

"  I  am  convinced  that  you  do  not  credit  me  with  a 
single  natural  impulse,  Mrs.  Dering,"  he  said,  stiffly. 

"  Not  that  exactly ;  but  I  do  think  that  you  cry  to 
most  of  them  as  the  cockney's  wife  in  '  Lear'  did  to 
the  eels  when  she  put  them  i'  the  paste  alive.  She 
rapp'd  'em  o'  the  coxcomb  with  a  stick  and  cry'd, 
1  Down,  wantons,  down !' "  But  Bransby  did  not 
smile. 

"  I  consider,"  he  remarked,  "  that  we  are  put  into 
this  world  to  curb  our  natural  inclinations." 

"  And  I,"  returned  Barbara,  "  that  we  are  meant  to 
develop  them,  in  the  right  direction." 

"  Of  course  I  recognize,  Mrs.  Dering,  that  our  phi 
losophies  diifer  widely ;  I  am  a  very  orthodox  man, 
while  you — pardon  me — but  indeed  I  think  that  you 
will  not  deny  that  you  are  quite  the  opposite." 

"  Quite,"  assented  Barbara. 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  275 

"  Now  this — pardon  me  again — but  I  cannot  consider 
this  exactly  feminine." 

"  Of  course  you  mean  according  to  your  views  of 
what  is  feminine,  Mr.  Bransby." 

"  Of  course ;  but  my  views  are  the  generally  ac 
cepted  views." 

"  Oh,  no !"  Barbara  could  not  help  exclaiming.  "  I 
don't  think  that  you  can  quite  say  that." 

"  I  should  have  said,  perhaps,  that  they  are  the  gen 
erally  accepted  views  among  a  certain  class  of  people. 
I  really  think,  Mrs.  Bering,  that  you  are  your  own 
worst  enemy." 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously  and  somewhat  depre- 
catingly,  but  she  was  not  in  the  least  vexed.  She  rolled 
up  the  flimsy  hat  and  made  a  little  cushion  of  it  to 
lean  her  head  back  upon. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  that  my  views  and  habits 
shock  some  people." 

"  "Well — er — yes,"  he  admitted,  nervously. 

"  But  suppose  that  they  don't  shock  the  people  for 
whose  opinions  I  really  care  ?" 

"  Ah,  but  sometimes  I  fear  they  do !  Now,  Bishop 
Cammersell,  for  instance " 

"  What  would  you  think  of  me,"  here  interrupted 
Barbara,  "  if  I  told  you  that  I  really  do  not  care  for 
Bishop  Cammersell's  good  opinion  ?" 

"  I  could  not  believe  that,  Mrs.  Dering !" 

"  Nevertheless,  it  is  quite  true.  I  think  that  Bishop 
Cammersell  is  timid  and  conventional  and  altogether 
incapable  of  owning  a  sturdy  original  conviction." 

"  You  pain  me  very  much,"  said  Bransby,  in  a  low 
ered  voice. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  should  not  care  for 
you  to  grow  to  like  me  better,  on  a  false  basis." 


276  BARBARA  DERING. 

"  Yes ;  your  complete  honesty  is  a  trait  that  I  always 
admire,"  he  put  in,  almost  eagerly. 

"  And  as  for  always  curbing  our  natural  inclinations, 
I  cannot  think  that  God  endowed  us  with  longings  and 
emotions  only  that  we  should  make  of  life  one  weary 
war  against  them." 

Bransby  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  kindling  face,  and 
gave  himself  up  to  the  fascination  of  her  rich  voice. 

"I  would  rather  live  one  year  fully,  freely,  richly, 
and  then  die,  than  spend  a  long,  tedious  existence  of 
suppressed  vitality.  Why,  it  is  the  great  sermon  of 
nature,  preached  from  morning  until  night,  through  all 
living  things,  whether  trees  or  birds  or  human  beings 
themselves,  that  through  feeling,  and  through  feeling 
alone,  we  reach  the  highest  spirituality.  It  is  only  im 
passioned  natures  that  are  capable  of  martyrdom.  If 
our  Lord  had  not  had  the  very  fire  of  enthusiasm  in 
His  soul,  He  could  not  have  given  His  life  for  others 
upon  the  cross.  It  is  the  pallid,  emotionless  lives  that 
bring  forth  nothing.  Without  motion,  great  results 
can  never  be  accomplished,  and  sensation  is  the  move 
ment  of  the  soul.  The  ground  must  be  broken  before 
it  can  bring  forth, — mental  apathy  of  all  sorts  must 
be  disturbed  before  human  beings  can  produce  high 
results,  whether  physical  or  spiritual." 

Bransby  continued  to  gaze  at  her  intently,  his  eyes 
gathering  a  still,  absent  expression. 

She  went  on : 

"I  think  that,  in  keeping  our  impulses  always 
crushed  and  unexpressed,  we  act  like  some  mothers, 
who  refuse  to  let  their  darling  boys  go  to  school,  and 
BO  instil  into  them  a  certain  milk  of  missishness  which 
all  the  events  of  after-life  can  never  quite  absorb.  I 
think  that  in  being  afraid  of  our  passions  and  emo- 


BARBARA  DERING.  277 

tions,  instead  of  grasping  them  firmly  and  kneading 
them  into  the  right  consistency,  we  are  doing  our 
selves  a  great  wrong,  and,  so  to  speak,  hiding  under 
napkins  such  talents  as  we  have." 

Bransby  said  nothing,  and  she  went  on : 
"  For  instance,  I  was  thinking  about  Eunice's  beau 
tiful  voice  to-day,  and  lamenting  to  myself  over  your 
dislike  of  music,  and  by  one  of  those  queer  coinci 
dences  which  so  often  happen  to  me,  I  picked  up  this 
little  copy  of  Plato's  '  Eepublic,'  and  it  opened  at  the 
pages  where  Socrates  talks  with  Glaucon  about  the  in 
fluence  of  music.  I  couldn't  help  contrasting  it  with 
the  teaching  of  the  'Kreutzer  Sonata'  which  you  so 
much  admire.  As  I  have  the  book,  if  you  don't  mind, 
I'll  read  you  the  bit  I'm  talking  of.  Here  it  is : 

"  When  a  man  surrenders  himself  to  music  and  flute-playing, 
and  suffers  his  soul  to  be  flooded  through  the  funnel  of  his  ears 
with  those  sweet  and  soft,  plaintive  harmonies  of  which  we  just 
spoke,  and  spends  his  whole  life  in  warbling  and  delighting  him 
self  with  song,  such  a  man,  at  the  outset,  tempers  whatever  por 
tion  of  the  spirited  element  he  possesses,  and  makes  it  useful 
instead  of  brittle  and  useless :  if,  however,  he  relaxes  not  his  de 
votion,  but  yields  to  the  enchantment,  he  then  begins  to  liquefy 
and  waste  away,  till  the  spirit  is  melted  out  of  him  and  the  sinews 
of  his  soul  are  extirpated,  and  he  is  made  a  feeble  wielder  of  the 
lance.' 

"  There !  Do  you  see  the  vital  difference  between 
the  two  philosophies?  One,  Tolstoi's,  teaches  total 
abstinence,  renunciation  even  of  the  good  in  a  thing 
which  may  become  evil,  under  certain  circumstances, — 
the  other,  that  even  out  of  evil  good  may  be  expected." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  how  you  look  at  it,"  said  Bransby, 
dreamily. 


278  BARBARA  DERINO. 

"  And  it  is  the  same  thing  about  the  idea  of  love. 
The  sun  is  fire,  and  so  is  a  flame  kindled  from  unclean 
matter,  but  the  flame  consumes,  while  the  sun  illumines 
and  brings  forth  all  beauty  on  the  earth,  which  the 
wise  restraint  of  nature  has  placed  just  near  enough  to 
the  great  orb  for  us  to  feel  its  thrilling  moderation 
without  being  scorched  by  its  excess!" 

Her  heart,  burning  with  thoughts  of  Eunice's 
starved  life,  urged  her  vehemently  forward. 

"  When  Tolstoi  condemns  all  passionate  love  between 
men  and  women  as  sensual,  surely  he  does  not  know 
in  what  real  love  consists.  High  love,  no  matter  how 
fiery,  never  descends  into  sensuality.  It  is  the  great 
sun  blazing  in  the  soul-heaven  and  kindling  into  life 
all  exquisite  emotions !" 

She  stopped,  breathless,  her  eyes  glowing,  her  whole 
face  radiant.  All  at  once  she  felt  that  Bransby  had 
his  arms  about  her,  that  his  mouth  was  just  about  to 
touch  her  own. 

With  one  swift  movement  of  her  strong  body  she 
flung  him  from  her  so  violently  that,  losing  his  balance, 
he  fell  sidewise  upon  the  heap  of  corn,  and  slid  noisily 
and  ungracefully  to  the  floor  beneath,  heralded  by  the 
delighted  shouts  and  caperings  of  the  two  children, 
who  had  rushed  in  from  the  other  room,  on  hearing 
something  fall.  Barbara,  one  blaze  of  furious  indigna 
tion,  stood  to  her  full  height  on  the  ledge  above,  and, 
looking  down,  saw  that  Eunice  was  pausing  in  the 
open  door-way,  outlined  by  the  film  of  her  white  gown 
through  which  the  sun  was  shining. 

She  returned  Barbara's  gaze  steadfastly,  and  a 
curious,  pale  smile  broke  the  grave  shadow  of  her 
face.  It  was  a  smile  that  expressed,  at  the  same  time, 
immeasurable  disgust  and  a  certain  deep  relief.  For 


BARBARA  DERING.  279 

she  felt  that  now  it  would  be  in  her  power  to  demand, 
with  reason,  those  alterations  in  her  life  which  she  had 
so  long  desired. 


XXXIII. 

BARBARA  had  been  at  Eosemary  for  two  weeks,  and 
the  warm  fragrance  of  June  now  held  the  spacious 
mountain  air.  As  yet  she  had  received  no  further  mes 
sage  from  Bering,  and  a  feeling  of  great  depression 
and  loneliness  had  been  gathering  in  her  heart. 

She  sat  at  the  open  window  of  her  room  to-night 
and  wrote  in  the  pages  of  her  journal,  now  listlessly, 
now  with  a  sudden  vehemence.  All  during  her  life, 
although  at  long  intervals,  Barbara,  like  most  imagina 
tive  women,  had  been  given  to  expressing  her  moods 
in  verse,  and  it  was  in  verse  that  she  was  writing  now. 
At  last  she  laid  aside  her  pen,  and,  taking  her  face  be 
tween  her  hands,  looked  down  upon  the  page  before 
her,  and  moved  her  head  slowly  from  side  to  side  with 
an  air  of  sorrowful  negation.  Large  tears  followed, 
falling  slowly  and  with  a  distinct,  soft  sound  upon  the 
open  book. 

The  lines  were  irregular  in  metre  and  had  a  wistful 
cadence,  like  the  broken  murmur  of  leaves  in  a  night- 
wind. 

"  Dost  thou  despair,  my  soul  ? 

Looking  through  Sorrow's  glass  upon  the  world, 

Sayest  thou  all  promises  are  unfulfilled?" 

Within,  within  the  voice  speaks  clear  and  high, 

And  melancholy  sweet : 

"  Wouldst  thou  helieve  in  perfect  human  love  ? 

Love  in  that  wise ; — so  comes  the  promise  true. 


280  BARBARA  DERING. 

Hast  thou  of  friendship  a  divine  ideal  ? 

Encloak  with  such  vast  generosity 

Some  life-chilled  fellow-creature,  and  believe. 

Doth  gratitude  evade  thee?     Ah,  poor  soul, 

Be  grateful  that  such  sorrow  thou  canst  feel, 

Because  the  world  lacks  friendship,  love,  ideals, 

And  hath  no  overflow  of  gratitude, 

To  waste  on  what  it  cannot  touch  or  see. 

To  loving  eyes,  the  invisible,  O  soul, 

Holds  more  of  beauty  and  of  very  God 

Than  to  eyes  scientific  starry  space  entire  ! 

The  very  blindness  of  aspiring  hearts 

More  surely  draws  the  unsure,  faltering  feet 

Towards  holy  surge  of  harmonies  divine, 

That,  in  wide  circles,  hem  the  distant  Throne 

Whereon,  forever  veiled,  sits  voiceless  Mystery. 

Strive,  therefore,  in  thyself,  O  mournful  soul, 

To  realize  in  all  thine  own  ideals, 

So  shalt  thou  know  the  capability 

That  throbs  unborn  in  life ; 

So  shalt  thou  find  all  promises  fulfilled, 

And  no  more  doubt  humanity  divine." 

Presently  she  got  up  and  went  out  into  the  warm, 
purplish  dusk  of  the  night.  A  rich  breeze  moved  in 
delicate  undulations,  heavy  with  the  scent  of  sun- 
warmed  strawberries,  of  damask  roses,  of  the  intangi 
ble  perfume  of  a  fringe-tree,  which,  in  the  star-pierced 
gloom,  quivered  softly,  like  a  sylvan  ghost. 

Low  over  the  sad  outline  of  the  hills,  the  evening 
star  thrilled  through  the  mystic  fabric  of  the  night, 
like  the  point  of  a  lance  of  fire.  Small  white  flowers 
gleamed  through  the  twilight  at  her  feet.  From  the 
shadows,  on  either  side,  crimson  blossoms  burned,  with 
a  subdued  and  smouldering  splendor.  The  thicket  was 
full  of  birds,  the  air  of  wings.  In  the  grass  was  the 
stir  of  a  subtle  and  thronging  life. 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  281 

Barbara  walked  slowly,  her  hands  behind  her  head, 
her  eyes  upon  the  scintillating  points  of  the  stars, 
which  shone  fitfully  through  the  frail  and  tremulous 
foliage  of  the  old  acacia-trees.  What  dreams  had 
come  to  her  under  their  airy  branches  !  What  hopes, 
what  yearnings,  what  aspirations !  She  drew  a  deep, 
unhappy  breath,  and  tried  to  realize  that  after  all  the 
stars  were  but  as  the  sands  of  a  golden  desert  reaching 
into  infinity,  not,  as  she  used  to  imagine,  worlds  where 
on  lived  creatures  like  herself,  to  whom,  perhaps,  came 
dreamings  such  as  those  which  haunted  her  on  summer 
nights  of  cloud  and  shine  and  gently-pausing  winds. 

"  It  cannot  be  that  I  am  only  thirty  and  that  life  is 
over  for  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  speaking  up  into 
the  serene  vault  of  air  above  her.  "  I  cannot  think 
that  it  is  all  over."  Again  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes 
and  blotted  out  the  stars.  She  wandered  on  and  on, 
and  came  at  last  to  the  low  gate,  over  which  a  white 
eglantine  festooned  itself  against  the  far  landscape 
that  resembled,  in  the  wan  light,  a  painting  by  Puvis 
de  Chavannes. 

There  was  the  same  bland  reach  of  luminous,  pale 
sky,  the  same  simple  masses  of  great  woods  enveloped 
in  a  tinted  haze,  the  same  ample  sweep  of  faint-hued 
fields.  One  could  fancy  austere  and  lovely  figures,  in 
robes  of  mellow,  faded  blues  and  pinks  and  saffrons, 
reaping  the  white  clover,  with  scythes  of  light.  A 
mocking-bird  was  filling  the  leaf-stirred  silence  with 
its  delicious  clamor. 

It  is  on  such  nights  as  this  that  loneliness  seems  pe 
culiarly  dread  and  unnatural.  The  whole  being  cries 
out  for  some  comprehending  soul  with  which  to  share 
such  sumptuous  loveliness.  Barbara  lifted  her  arms 
and  extended  them  towards  the  dim  horizon-line  in 

24* 


282  BARBARA  DERING. 

that  gesture  of  yearning  with  which  she  expressed 
certain  moods.  The  empty  summer  air  filled  her  em 
brace  and  beat  softly  against  her  breast.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  no  one  in  all  the  world  could  be  so  lonely,  so 
forsaken,  as  herself,  and  then,  as  she  thought  that  her 
heart  must  break  for  very  desolation,  she  felt  herself 
clasped  close,  her  head  bent  back,  and  the  pressure  of 
eager  lips  upon  her  own. 

"Barbara!  Barbara!  Barbara!"  said  Bering,  re 
leasing  her  and  kneeling  to  put  his  arms  again  around 
her.  "  Will  you  forgive  me,  beautiful,  good,  splendid 
Barbara  ?  And  will  you  be  a  little  sorry  for  me  ?  Oh, 
my  wife,  my  life,  how  I  have  missed  you!  How  I 
have  hungered  and  thirsted  for  you ! — for  your  unfail 
ing  sympathy, — your  gentle  advice, — all  your  noble 
self,  from  head  to  foot,  mind,  soul,  and  body !  If  you 
could  only  know, — if  I  could  only  get  words  to  tell 
you, — I  think  that  you  would  forgive  me,  would  com 
fort  me,  would  take  me  back,  my  one  love !" 

Barbara  could  not  speak.  She  trembled  and  put  her 
hands  upon  his  thick  curls,  as  he  knelt  there  in  the 
starlight,  at  her  feet.  At  last  she  felt  that  he  was 
waiting  for  her  answer,  and  managed  to  stammer, 
brokenly, — 

"  I  do,  I  do,  dearest ;  but  I  thought — I  was  afraid — 
oh,  Jock,  I  was  afraid  that  you  did  not  care — that  you 
would  never  care  any  more !" 

She  felt  his  arms  tighten  convulsively,  and  he  hid  his 
face  in  the  folds  of  her  gown  some  moments  before  he 
spoke  again.  Then  he  said,  whispering, — 

"  Darling,  I  don't  think  that  you'll  know  your  old 
Jock.  He's  a  very  new  person  in  a  great  many  ways." 

"  Not  in  too  many  ways,  I  hope,  dear,"  she  said,  with 
her  kindly-beautiful  smile.  Then,  stooping,  she  kissed 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  283 

his  hair.  "  A  very  thin  Jock,  I'm  sorry  to  see,"  she 
added,  pityingly.  "Dearest,  tell  me,  have  you  been 
ill  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  much, — nothing  serious.  I  had  a  slow 
fever  in  Japan.  Ah,  Barbara !  one  can  do  a  lot  of 
thinking  during  a  slow  fever." 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  put  his  arm  about  her.  To 
gether  they  leaned  and  looked  out  at  the  meditative 
beauty  of  the  great  meadows.  They  did  not  say  any 
thing  more,  for  a  long  while.  Then  Dering  spoke,  still 
in  that  low,  controlled  tone,  as  though  afraid  of  waking 
some  sleeping  danger: 

"  We  must  begin  all  over  again,  darling,  if  you  will 
bear  with  me  and  forgive  me.  I  think  that  I  have  con 
quered  that  ugly  self  of  mine.  I  dare  not  say  that  I 
have,  but  indeed,  indeed,  I  think  I  have.  And  you  will 
help  me  to  struggle  with  it,  in  case  it  ever  should  come 
back." 

"  And  you,"  said  Barbara,  her  voice  thick  with  tears, — 
"  you  will  be  patient  with  my  faults, — you  will  help  me, 
— you  will  forgive  me,  too." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  darling.  I  know  that  you  are  too 
great,  too  wise,  too  absolutely  free  from  vanity  to  want 
me  to  tell  you  that  you  have  no  faults,  but,  oh !  Bar 
bara,  compared  to  mine  they  are  such  little,  little 
faults,  I  feel  that  if " 

She  turned  and  closed  his  lips  with  a  shy  kiss. 

"  You  shall  not  abuse  my  husband  to  me,"  she  whis 
pered. 

Pierced  to  the  heart  with  her  beauty  and  sweetness, 
he  held  her  against  him  for  some  moments  in  silence. 

"  And  I  have  many  plans  for  work  in  the  world  out 
side,  dearest,"  he  said,  after  a  while.  "  I  want  to  knock 
out  some  evil  before  I  am  stowed  away  under  the  sod. 


284  BARBARA  DERING. 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  this,  and  about  women  espe 
cially, — about  factory-girls.  I  want  to  build  club-houses 
for  them  in  the  large  towns,  where  they  can  find  rest 
and  recreation." 

"  Oh,  Jock !  you  warm  my  very  soul !"  she  cried. 
"  How  life  has  changed  for  me  in  the  last  ten  minutes ! 
I  thought  that  I  was  to  be  alone,  all  the  rest  of  my 
life." 

"  And  how  it  has  changed  for  me !"  he  echoed.  "  I 
knew  how  generous  you  were.  I  felt  that  you  would 
forgive  at  last,  but  indeed,  indeed,  darling,  I  never 
hoped  that  you  would  take  me  to  your  heart  at  once 
like  this.  And  are  you  well,  my  own  ? — and  the  child  ? 
Barbara,  what  a  fiend  I  was !  You  are  an  angel  to 
forgive  me  so  soon !  And  the  Bransbys,  how  are 
they  ?  And  that  dear  Mrs.  Crosdill " 

Barbara  began  to  laugh  and  shake  back  her  hair. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Crosdill  was  married  last  Thursday,  to 
Bishop  Cammersell,  my  dear.  I  have  been  thinking 
ever  since  how  you  would  gloat  over  that !  She  says 
that  it  is  to  be  a  mother  to  his  nine  children,  but  I 
fancy  that  the  gentle  bishop  will  find  that  he  has  a 
wife  as  well !" 

"Well,  yes,  rather,"  said  Dering,  with  his  drawl. 
"How  the  mischief  could  he  put  up  with  her?  By 
gad  !  that  does  beat  me." 

"  It's  like  those  classic  earwigs  spoken  of  so  long  ago 
in  the  pages  of  'Punch.'  Don't  you  remember?  A 
little  girl  is  watching  them  crawl  along  a  bench,  and 
after  asking  her  aunt  what  they  are,  she  says,  '  Ugh ! 
how  can  such  horrid  things  associate  with  each  other?' " 

Dering  laughed,  and  then  asked  how  Bransby  and 
Eunice  liked  the  marriage. 

"Oh,  he,  of  course,  is  ecstatic,"  rejoined  Barbara. 


BARBARA  DERINQ.  285 

with  that  expressive  curl  of  her  lip.  "  As  for  Eunice, 
it  is  rather  a  relief  to  her,  as  it  will  prevent  those  long 
visitations  which  she  used  to  dread  so.  Dearest  Jocko, 
you  will  like  Eunice  more  than  ever,  I  am  sure.  We 
are  closer  than  ever,  and  she  is  growing  broader-minded 
and  more  splendid  in  every  way,  each  day  that  she 
lives." 

"  What  lots  of  good  you  have  done  her,  my  sweet 
heart  !"  said  Bering,  eagerly.  "  I  think  every  life  that 
touches  yours  is  made  better  and  higher." 

With  hands  clasped  and  cheeks  together  they 
watched  the  dull  rose-hued  edge  of  the  rising  moon 
peer  above  the  violet  band  of  the  horizon.  In  their 
hearts  was  that  deep  stillness  which  comes  with  hope 
that  has  outlived  despair. 


THE   END. 


RY 

-    "         "  I2mo. 


SSSL 


AUTHOR  OP  "ALONE,"  "TRUE  AS  STEEL,"  ETC 


"  The  plot  is  excellently  handled,  and  the  author  has  given  us  a 
vivid  impression  of  the  life  and  pursuits  of  a  community  of  aristocratic 
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apart  from  the  numberless  machines  of  tedium  which  nowadays  are 
labelled  novels." — London  Saturday  Review. 

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